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CHICAGO : 

MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO., 

PUBLISHERS. 


iDYLWiLD Series. Vol. 1. No. 32. Februan; 
Issued Weekly. Annual Subscriptiun, $2h.0( 
Entered in the Fostoffice at Chicago 
as seci)nd-class matter. 


BY 

« PATIENCE 
STAPLETON 

AUTHOR OF" KAOYTtc 



ILLUSTRATED. 


LIBBY PRISON WAR IRflUSEUBW. 

Removed from Richmond, Virginia, in 1R89 to CHK’AfiO, and converted into a great 
War Museum. The only one in America illustrating American heroism. A woaderlul 
exhibition. Open daiiy and Sunday from 9 a. m. to 10 p. m. 

WABASH AVEMUE, BETWEEN 14tb AND t6t!i STREETS. 

Xo Animosity, No North, No South, but 


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That ancient machine of thine 


For Wheeier & Wilson’s No. 9. 




WHEELER & WILSON MANUFACTURING CO., 

.^185 and 187 Wabash Ave., CHICAGO. 


L. MANASSE, 


OPTICIAN, 

s — r w r 

88 Madison Street, * Tribune Building, 

CHICAGO, ILL. 


Importer, Manufacturer and Dealer ’ 


I i\i <s- 

Standard Opera, Field and Marine Glasses, Spec= 
tacles and Eye-Glasses, Barometers, Ther= 
mometers. Hydrometers, etc. 

MAGIC LANTERNS and Views, Illustrating all sub- 
jects of popular interest. 

1868. THE OLD RELIABLE. 




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we’ve found a pocket— that’s silver, P'OOLS, see it shine. 


MY JEAN 


BY 

PATIENCE STAPLETON 

M 

Author of^Kady," "Babe Murphy" etc. 


•‘Tho’ mountains rise, and deserts h«wl, 
And oceans roar between. 

Yet dearer than my deathless soul 
I still would love my Jean.” 


j% 

CHICAGO 

Morrill, Higgins & Co. 
1893 


/ 










Copyright 1893 by 
PATIENCE STAPLETON 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE, 

I.' Across the Plains 9 

II. A Secret Marriage 20 

, III. The Macdonald Household 33 

IV. Desperation Gulch 48 

V. Without Judge or Jury 63 

VI. Rest at Last 76 

VII. Paradise on Earth 91 

Will. A Hidden Pocket 103 

IX. Jane Finds Friends 114 

X. Miss Franklin’s Home 131 

XI. A Senatorial Rival 147 

XH. A Lovers’ Quarrel 159 

XHI. A Revelation 169 

XIV. A Hasty Journey West 185 

XV. Jean Hears Her History 199 

XVI. Will Becomes a Cowboy 217 

XVH. A Newspaper’s Testimony 229 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

XVIII. Two Western Hermits 245 

XIX. Rose Makes a Revelation 263 

XX. Rose McCord’s Revenge 280 

XXI. Dicky Makes a Discovery 296 

XXII. A Happy Reunion .....308 

XXIII. What The Moon Saw ...325 


MY JEAN 


CHAPTER I 

ACROSS THE PLAINS 

Foremost in the long train of white-covered wagons 
that crossed the plains in 1858 and 1859 to what is 
now known as Denver, ‘‘the Queen City of the Plains, ” 
was the train of wagons of old Judge Wallace, of 
Rocky Creek, Ohio, who, with his two stalwart sons, 
his fair daughter Virginia, her maid — black-eyed, 
red-cheeked Rose McCord — and all his household 
goods, was moving to the' new settlement. 

The Judge had grown unpopular in his Ohio home. 
He was the great-grandson of an English earl, and 
he never forgot this fact. His servants hated him, 
for they could not understand his self-asserted su- 
periority, and his commanding ways and haughty 
manner made the honest sons and daughter of the 
farmers around Rocky Creek enter his service reluc- 
tantly to leave it at the earliest opportunity. Fi- 
nally the Judge imported from Kentucky two negroes 
who had been slaves, a man and wife, and for his 
daughter, a child of five just left motherless, he 
adopted the child of a poor farmer — who had eleven 

9 


lO 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


more — and this girl, then ten years old, was to be 
Miss Virginia’s maid. Rose McCord accepted the 
situation because she had to, but the ridicule of 
her playmates and less fortunate sisters made her 
sullen and discontented. They called her “Wal- 
lace’s white slave” and “Miss Virginia’s maid,” with 
ironical thrusts and malicious innuendoes until the 
girl hated herself and all the Wallaces, even the 
little child, her charge, who loved her so. They 
were proud and rich and had never worked, and this 
child never would have to await the pleasure of 
others, wash greasy dishes and answer the sum- 
mons of a master’s bell — this last especially gall- 
ing to Rose. She had always been a servant and 
she hated the more fortunate. 

When Judge Wallace set out for the settlement 
across the plains, where he hoped to become the 
leading man and win all the honors that jealousy 
and his own unpopularity had deprived him of in 
Ohio, his sons were twenty and twenty-five, his 
daughter just fifteen and her maid twenty. There 
were four wagons belonging to him in the train; 
the foremost driven by his son Dwight drawn by 
four fine horses; the next one, drawn by two horses 
his son George drove, then a wagon with four oxen 
John Brooks drove, and finally, the white-covered 
wagon the judge occupied with his daughter and 
her maid. This was drawn by four oxen and driven 
by Roy MacDonald, the son of a Scotch lady who 
came to Rocky Creek, where she died in poverty. 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


II 


She emigrated to America in search of her husband; 
people thought she was of good birth and had once 
been wealthy, for her manners were refined. She 
was well educated and her clothing and that of her 
little boy had been costly, though worn and faded. 
She earned a bare living for several years, teaching 
painting and music, then worn out in body and 
mind, died of a lingering fever, without telling her 
sorrowful story. The boy, left a penniless orphan, 
was taken into Judge Wallace’s household, where 
he made himself useful for his board and schooling. 
The degrading tasks given him never brought one 
dissenting murmur from his firm lips; he seemed 
to care for nothing but his books, and was the most 
brilliant scholar in the town school. The Judge 
never made an equal of him, he ate his meals and 
sat with black Sam and Molly, who were now in 
the forward wagon with Brooks. At this time Roy 
was twenty, a fine manly lad, eager to win fame 
and fortune in the new country. 

The wagons journeyed on, day after day, across 
the monotonous prairie, over dry burning sand, 
through cactus and sage brush and buffalo grass, 
stumbling into the holes of prairie dogs, followed 
afar by keen-scented coyotes with their melancholy 
yells, or closer and fiercer, by wolves bold from 
hunger. The sky above them was a cloudless blue, the 
sun dazzling and hot. Far off they saw in fear and 
dread roving bands of Indians; but these emigrants 
were safe because of their numbers. There were 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


I 2 

fifty or sixty wagons. Near the trail were corpses 
of men and women — some not buried, or unearthed 
by prowling coyotes, and there were heaps of human 
bones never sebjected to the decay of nature. In the 
very trail were the rotting carcasses of oxen and 
horses. The way was one of dreary horror which all the 
bright hopes of the future could not alleviate. 

One night these emigrants camped beside a creek, 
knowing on the morrow they would behold the land 
of their dreams. It was livelier here. Many other 
travelers were camped at the spot and all were full 
of energy and excitement. The fires of the differ- 
ent parties shone bright along the creek and were 
mirrored in the rippling waters, the white-covered 
wagons made a picturesque feature in the landscape. 
Even the tethered horses and oxeii added charm to 
the scene. Far, far away stretched the level plains, 
and away on the horizon was the smoke of camp- 
fires of coming people. The full moon making 
night as day never seemed half so beautiful to 
these people before. The atmosphere being so 
clear, the moon and stars seemed brighter and larger 
than in the East. Groups of men formed at the 
fires and around the wagons, all talking of the new 
city to be, and the wealth they should make. It 
was a lovely fall evening without dampness and the 
fires were more for cheer than from necessity. 

“You will stay in the wagon, Virginia?” said the 
old Judge, desiring to get acquainted with some of 
the settlers in the new country, and to join his sons 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


13 


at a camp-fire a short distance off. "Rose will keep 
you company, and Roy will see that no one disturbs 
you; don’t let the women have a chance to speak 
to you." 

"No, father," answered the girl in the wagon, 
obediently. Well satisfied, he went away and left 
her. 

"There’s no need of our smothering here," said 
another voice, after the Judge was out of hearing. 
"’Tain’t against orders to breathe anyhow." So 
saying a well-formed tall girl got up from the pile 
of rugs on the wagon floor and looped the curtains 
up on the side the Judge could not see from his 
position. Then she leaned out. Even in the moon- 
light one would notice her great dark eyes, her red 
cheeks, the mass of black hair coiled about her 
large head and her full sensual mouth with its 
strong white teeth. "Come, Miss Virgie,” she said 
in a coarse, deep voice, .hesitating on the "Miss," 
for even that went against the lawless independence 
of her nature. "You can look out at least. You’d 
oughter not lose this scene." 

"Indeed not," said the same soft voice that had 
answered the Judge and a second figure came to the 
opening. A slight, tall girl, fair as a lily, with 
deep blue eyes and golden-stranded chestnut hair, 
a sweet face and dainty hands, a lady in every act 
and look, carefully nurtured and educated. It was 
a strange place for her, for the sweet, fair women 
her ancestors loved were nurtured in grand old 
castles or dwelt at courts. 


14 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


The two girls talked of the night and the beauti- 
ful scene about them, then Rose McCord said, defi- 
antly: 

“There’s Tom Brooks cornin’ ; I want to talk with 
him. I mayn’t see him again. You’ll not care if I 
go speak to him? Your father won’t see, and Tom’ 11 
leave for the mountains soon’s he gets to Denver." 

“Go, by all means. Rose,” said Virginia, timidly, 
for she stood in some fear of this nurse, who had 
always been a tyrant to her since childhood. “Roy 
will take care of me.” 

“Roy will take care of you!” echoed Rose mali- 
ciously, as she jumped from the wagon. Then she 
went out to meet Brooks. He was a short thick-set 
man, with reddish hair, and a ragged and uneven 
beard covering his chin and neck. At this time he 
was about twenty-five. There was a half-defiant 
air about him, and his small, gray eyes never looked 
any one in the face. Ugly stories had been told of 
him in Rocky Creek, and, though never convicted, 
he was strongly suspected of a murder committed 
there. 

Rose’s dark eyes brightened as he sullenly bade 
her good evening. He considered a sulky air a 
sign of independence, likely to make him respected. 

She put her hand through his unwilling arm. 
They talked awhile. Rose all fire and pleading, he 
careless and indifferent. Finally she flung his arm 
away rudely, saying with fierce passion. “You don’t 
care any more for me; you’re hoping to get a rich 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


15 


girl out here — you’re going to play me — cheat me; 
you’d better not try it!” 

"A man can’t be making love all the time,” he 
said sullenly, "and talking soft sawder. You know 
I’ve promised to yer — that oughter be enough; we 
couldn’t git married anyway, poor as we are. I’ll 
be rich first. I’ll find gold and make a fortun’. I 
come out here for that. Yer wouldn’t have me kiss 
yer 'fore all the crowd there?” 

"No, no, Tom,” said Rose pleadingly; "you know 
I wouldn’t, you know I don’t want to hamper you 
none; only be true to me, I never keered for none 
but you. You come to me fust, you was soft in 
Ohio, if I do say it. You was alius telling me how 
you keered for me — yet all this journey you haint 
hardly spoke.” 

"This ain’t Ohio,” muttered Tom doggedly. 

"But I’m the same; you oughter be,” cried Rose, 
moving away from him. "I don’t ask no more from 
you, but you’d better have my love than my hate.” 
She went close to him. "Take me away soon, Tom, 
from them. I hate Wallace and them boys and 
her — that soft-voiced thing who don’t lift her hand 
to do a thing, that I’ve been a slave to for years. 
I could kill her!” 

"You’re a strange one,” said Tom, admiringly. 
"I b’lieve you’d help a feller on in life. A hand- 
some girl, too! Never you mind Rosy, there’s lots 
of luck for you an’ me ahead.” 

They parted then and Rose crept softly to the 


l6 ACROSS THE PLAINS 

back of the wagon where she listened. Virginia 
and Roy were talking just as she had seen them 
when she walked away, Roy standing by the wagon, 
his dark, glowing eyes fixed on Virginia’s face. 
Rose heard him say: 

“Through all my sad childhood, Virginia, you 
have been my only sympathizer, my only friend. I 
studied to make myself worthy of you. I thought 
of nothing, nobody but you. Now, I feel in this 
new country there is a future for me. I will win 
honor and fame and you will not be ashamed of 
me. It’s like a dream," he went on eagerly, “that 
you — so beautiful, so proud — say you love me, you 
will wait for me. Say it again, Virginia, that I 
may carry the words in my heart! ’’ 

“Dear Roy," said Virginia softly, “I do love you; 
I will wait for you all my life." 

Then Rose made her appearance, as if she had 
heard nothing. 

A week after they reached the new settlement, 
she told Judge Wallace what she had heard. The 
furious old man turned Roy from his house, and 
never relaxed his severity and watchfulness toward 
his daughter. The Judge in hopes to become the 
most prominent man in the settlement, left Denver, 
crossed the Platte River to the highlands opposite, 
and tried to found a new town. In four years he 
found his mistake. Highland was not the town, 
and many of his followers deserted and crossed to 
Denver; but the Judge resolved to remain and be 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


17 


grand, if solitary. So he built a big house — a won- 
der in those days, and as costly as a palace. 

It was of wood — but solid and handsome, two- 
storied, with quaint roof and tower and grand pil- 
lared portico. He had fine furniture hauled from 
the east, and set up to be the foremost gentleman 
in the Territory. His dinners were marvels in 
those days of privation and poverty and he was ad- 
mired and reverenced by a large following. His 
sad, beautiful daughter had suitors enough but none 
either interested her or touched her heart. The 
Judge was glad of this, he was sure she had recov- 
ered from her silly infatuation for his “stable boy," 
and he meant her to marry well. One of his sons, 
George, died soon after his arrival in the new 
town, of heart disease, which the rarefied atmos- 
phere made fatal, and the Judge had only two chil- 
dren left. 

Brooks had not been heard from since the day 
they arrived. Roy had entered the army and was 
winning laurels by his bravery in the constant skir- 
mishes with the Indians, Rose still stayed with her 
young mistress, though in those times of scarcity 
of women she might have married men who are mil- 
lionaires to-day. 

Virginia Wallace kept her own counsel for four 
years, but if her father thought she had forgotten 
her lover he was sadly deceived. If he could have 
heard what she said to Rose McCord, and have pre- 
vented what she did one night, this story could 
never have been written. 


i8 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


"Will you go with me, Rose?" said Virginia, she 
had confided in the girl — almost her only friend — 
her only woman friend in the new country. Rose 
hesitated; should she tell the Judge and have it 
stopped, or should she trust to time to bring pun- 
ishment? The latter was the better course, she 
thought. 

"I will stand by you always,” she answered firmly. 

"You never told. Rose," questioned Virginia, 
tremblingly, "thai Roy loved me four years ago? 
You could not have known." 

"1 didn’t," said Rose, promptly; "your brother, 
Dwight, suspected it. He saw Roy kiss your hand." 

"We have been friends so long," went on Virginia, 
lovingly, putting her arms around Rose’s neck — 
"not mistress and maid. Rose, friends rather — friends 
and confidants in this lonely new land. Be true to 
me and you shall always have a home with me, dear 
Rose. " 

Rose drew herself away almost rudely; all her 
best impulses were not yet gone. 

"You’re bent on going? "she said shortly. 

"Yes," said Virginia, solemnly. How much gran- 
ite strength there is in a fine, strong character dis- 
guised under a gentle, yielding manner. Better for 
persuasion a thousand times over, a passionate, 
fiery nature. 

"Then we’ll do it," cried Rose, decisively. "Your 
father and Mr. Dwight have gone to the meeting of 
the citizens in Denver. They won’t be back till ii 


ACROSS THE PLAINS 


19 


or 12. It’s 8 now; the niggers is abed. We can go 
and get back before them. Where’s the wagon 
camped?” 

"On this side of the Platte, close to the water,” 
said Virginia, wrapping herself in her long, dark 
cloak and drawing its hood over her face. 

Then the two went softly out a side door through 
the young cottonwoods that looked like little shrubs 
— the soil was so dry and the sun so scorching, and 
they had fought for life hard. Down the hills 
through the starlit darkness, Virginia went to her 
fate and, like a Nemesis — as an evil shadow Rose Mc- 
Cord followed close behind. 


CHAPTER II 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 

Down by the Platte that was now, *in the summer 
season, only a narrow, shallow stream, easy to ford, 
was a white-covered emigrant wagon, and near it 
two bony horses were feeding on the bushes along 
the stream. The bright glow of a camp-fire in the 
darkness guided Virginia and Rose to the wagon. 
Close to the fire was a tent, and here a lantern 
swung, giving a dim, uncertain light, flickering in 
every breeze that came sweet and odorous from the 
flower-clad plains down the river valley. In the 
tent was a white-haired old man in earnest conver- 
sation with a handsome young man, wearing the 
uniform of a federal soldier. 

Both men rose when the two women came into 
the tent, where the soldier introduced the old man 
as a clergyman — Mr. Valle — who had crossed the 
plains with a party of emigrants to find his son, 
who had come to Denver a year before, and who, 
he found, had been killed in a skirmish with Indi- 
ans. 

“He was my best friend," said Roy, sadly. “Vir- 
ginia, your gentle heart can feel for his poor father." 

Virginia, her eyes full of tears, placed her soft 
20 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


21 


hand in that of the old man. He was deeply 
touched, and for a moment forgot the object of her 
visit. 

‘I pray God,” he said solemnly, still holding the 
girl’s hand and looking into her beautiful eyes that 
met his gaze unflinchingly, “I may not be wrong; 
that in doing this I am not making sorrow and add- 
ing suffering and crime to the sin-laden world. If 
trouble should come of it — ” 

“Look at me, "cried Virginia, quickly, "look how 
thin and worn I am. Look at my bloodless hand 
— my sunken eyes — my face where all the color of 
youth is gone; I am only nineteen, yet I look old 
and careworn; my heart is breaking. This will 
save me, it will bind me to the man I love. It will 
make me his — I shall know he will protect me. If 
thousands of miles are between us I can still feel 
safe, my father cannot make me marry another man. 
If he casts me off — turns me out in the world — I 
will go to my husband.” 

“My wife!” cried Roy, holding her to his breast. 
“Only a week, sir, and I must go to the East. My 
regiment is ordered to Washington; we will go 
then to fight against the South. There is honor 
and promotion for me there — I will succeed. My 
heart will be at rest about my love; she is mine; 
no one can harm her; she will wait for me, and I 
can g^ to battle, sure of her truth and love as I am 
of my own courage. Rose, ” he said, turning to the 
girl who had been a silent listener, “you will care 


22 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


for my darling, write me if she is sick, if she is ill- 
treated; she will have a faithful friend in 3^ou. " 

'She will,” said Rose earnestly. 

The old minister went to the door and looked 
out. All was silent, only the rippling of the water, 
the tread of the tethered horses. He sighed, but he 
called the young couple before him and began a 
simple marriage service needing no book nor ritual. 
Roy took from his breast his mother’s wedding ring 
and put it on Virginia’s slender finger. Then the 
minister blest them and they were wed. As solemn 
and binding that ceremony as in a crowded cathe- 
dral with mitred bishop and attendant priests. He 
wrote a certificate with trembling hand that before 
the ink was dry Virginia hid in her bosom. 

"God bless you," said the old man, as she, trem- 
bling and white, clung to Roy’s arm. “God care 
for you both and watch over 3'ou. I will not see 
the end of this; my days are short; but my heart 
would have told me if I erred. I cannot regret, I 
will pray that it may end well.” 

After they were gone he went and paced restlessly 
by the river. 

‘T did not like that servant’s face,” he muttered. 

In what he said of the shortness of his days the 
old minister was strangely right. How brief they 
were to be he did not know, he died on his home- 
ward journey across the plains not six days from 
that night and was buried by the trail, with the 
other pioneers who made a longer journey than they 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


23 


ever dreamed when they set out full of hope and 
ambition. 

That happy week! Virginia saw Roy often. 
There was a balcony at her window, Rose played 
the nurse, and the drama of Romeo and Juliet as 
old as the world, was played again to end in dark- 
ness and despair. The week ended and Roy went 
beyond the plains to fight for the Union, and Vir- 
ginia, like all women in wartime, was left to mourn 
and wait for news that came so slowly across the 
dreary waste. 

In midwinter, Rose McCord wrote Roy a letter 
of which Virginia never knew. Then the woman 
waited and planned for the trouble she knew must 
come. 

The old Judge had been much occupied that win- 
ter, Dwight was in the mountains, the fine dinners 
had been less frequent, but in March the Judge re- 
solved to give a banquet to the leading Denver peo- 
ple. Then he recollected he had not seen his daughter 
for a month except at breakfast, she having one 
excuse or another, either illness or painting, or 
something, and indeed for the past month he had 
been away on law business a great deal; so the day 
before the banquet he went up to his daughter’s 
room. She was lying on a sofa by an open window 
for the soft March air was. like summer. She gath- 
ered the fur rug about her as he opened the door 
and lay back on the couch, white and frightened. 

“You’re not ill, Virginia? ' he said, kindly. “Gad, 


24 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


how pale you are, and those circles under your 
eyes! It does not agree with you here.” 

“No,” she answered half hopefully — “I would be 
better East. I can hardly breathe here. 1 think 
the climate does not agree with me. I am tortured 
by nervous fears and dread.” 

“It seems so,” he said, indifferentl}^ “Well, I’ll 
think it over; but to-morrow you must be your old 
self — lady-like and agreeable. Put on your prettiest 
gown and your mother’s diamonds, you remind me 
of her at times very strongly.” 

“My mother,” gasped the girl strangely. “If she 
had lived!" 

“Why, Virginia, you’re ungrateful,” cried her 
father petulantly. “Haven’t I given you every care 
and luxury and watched over you, and tried to be a 
mother and father too?” 

“Yes, yes,” Virginia went on hurriedly, pressing 
her lips to his hand. “Dear father, I have been an 
ungrateful child — undutiful. ” 

“Not a bit, not a bit,” he said fondly, “my brave 
little girl — pure as a lily and proud. She shall be 
the greatest lady in Colorado some da)^” 

He stooped and kissed her, noticing that her fore- 
head was burning hot. 

“Look your best to-morrow, pet, I like to show 
these ignorant people what good breeding is. By- 
by. Don’t come to dinner if you’re not well. Sam 
shall bring you a dainty little feast. I’ll look after 
it myself." 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


25 


Then, he went down the stairs humming a song, 
and the girl, half mad, wild with shame and remorse 
flung herself on the floor, tore her hair and looked 
with burning eyes that would not weep and tried to 
speak with parched lips from which no words came. 

She heard them in the morning making prepara- 
tions for the banquet, like a criminal with sentence 
of death hanging over her, she watched the slow 
hours creep by. At last she got up, and Rose 
helped her dress. She put on a black velvet that 
had been her mother’s. It fell in rich folds about 
her and Rose draped a black shawl over her, then 
Virginia put on her mother’s diamonds, shuddering 
as she did so. 

“Why you look like a dowager,” said her father, 
angrily, when she came down a few moments before 
the guests arrived. “Where is your blue dress with 
the white lace — that is girlish and suitable." 

“It was torn," she faltered, and jiist then the 
guests arrived. 

The banquet passed off without a jar, everybody 
was pleased and admired Miss Wallace to her fath- 
er’s content; but one sharp-featured woman, on tak- 
ing her leave, said as she tied her bonnet strings 
in the parlor — “Your da’ ter hain’t a merried woman, 
is she, Judge Wallace?” 

“No, indeed," said the Judge, smiling with pa- 
tronizing condescension — “She’s a slip of a girl yet, 
little more than nineteen. I could not spare her 
for a good many years to come." 


26 


A SECRFT MARRIAGE 


“Oh, indeed,” snapped Mrs. Collins grasping her 
husband’s arm— he had been very attentive on the 
fair young hostess— “Wal, youM oughter be proud 
of her!” 

What the woman said occurred to the Judge 
again. It tormented him ; what did she mean? His 
daughter a married woman! Virginia was ill for a 
week after the banquet. He saw her every day. 
She would not have a doctor, yet he could see she 
grew daily worse. He decided, notwithstanding 
her prejudices against the dubious physicians who 
might attempt to practice in the new country, to 
call in one. Then a thought struck him. He rang 
the bell for Sam. 

“Go tell Rose McCord to come here,” he said — 
Sam came back a minute later Rose with him. 
When Sam was out of the room Rose picked up the 
corner of her apron and began to cry. 

“What is the matter with your mistress?” the 
Judge asked sharply. “You don’t think she’s going 
to die. Is that what you’re crying for?” 

"Oh no, sir,” sobbed Rose. 

“Then what is the matter with Virginia?” he cried, 
exasperated. 

“I daren’t tell!” Rose stammered, and fled from 
the room. 

Judge Wallace staggered to a chair. His head 
was dizzy— he put his hand up to his eyes. He 
tried to think. The blood seemed rushing through 
his brain. Was he going to have a stroke of apo- 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


27 


plexy? He tried to calm himself. What did Rose 
mean — what did that woman mean? Then he burst 
open the door and rushed up-stairs like a madman. 

Three hours afterward when Dwight came home, 
he and his father were closeted together a long time. 
Then Dwight mounted his horse and rode madly to 
Denver without noticing that he passed on his way 
a man hurr3dng to the Judge’s house. Old Sam 
was posted at the door; when he saw the new-comer 
he turned almost gray in his horror. 

"’Fore God, tain’t you, Mas’r Roy?" he gasped. 

"Yes Sam. Virginia, where is she?" 

"Locked in her room; awful doings heah now, 
sah." Then Sam told what he knew, afterward he 
crept up the winding stairs in that house where 
there was almost the hush of death, opened the 
door of Miss Virginia’s room and told her who \vas 
below. The girl dressed in her long blue wrapper, 
followed him like a shadow until she reached the 
hall door where he stood, her lover — her husband. 

There was one happy moment — one that came 
back like a vision in all the painful future — the one 
moment when he held her to his breast. Then a 
door opened and her father rushed out — white with 
rage he struck at Roy, tried to curse him — and fell 
in a fit at her feet; then there was the galloping of 
horses and Dwight dashed up; the light of the 
hall lamp lit up the scene. He saw his father ap- 
parently lifeless in old Sam’s arms, his sister cling- 
ing to the man who had brought shame upon them. 
He rushed up the step. 


28 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


“Coward! sneak!” he shouted, “die like a hound!” 

Half to protect the woman clinging to him, Roy 
drew his own pistol. There was a flash, a terrible 
sound, followed by a moan, and Dwight fell back- 
ward down the steps, while Roy wavered a moment, 
then without a cry fell at Virginia’s feet, his warm 
blood dabbling her dress. Dwight’s pistol had fired 
Roy’s. He never meant to shoot his wife’s brother. 
Virginia, the cause of it all, fainted and knew no 
more for weary days that merged into weeks. 

When she came to herself the first face she saw 
was Rose McCord’s. 

“Has it been a dream, Rose?” she asked faintly. 

“If it only had a been,” answered Rose mourn- 
fully. Then Virginia saw she had on a black dress 
and looked pale and worn. 

“Have I been sick long?” Virginia said timidly. 

“Three weeks, lacking three days. They thought 
you’d die; the child is dead.” 

“If I had! If I had!” Virginia moaned. Will 
my father see me? Will he come here? Just to 
hear me speak a few words? ” 

“I’ll call him,” said Rose. “He wanted to see 
you when you was sensible.” 

Virginia listened with beating heart, and it 
seemed as if her father’s very tread was different. 
There was a sternness in every step. He looked 
at her coldly when he came in, as if she were a 
stranger. He stood at the foot of her bed, his arms 
folded. 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


29 


“Well what have you to say?’’ he said, harshly. 

“Only that Roy was my husband,’’ cried Virginia. 
“We were privately married. I have my certificate. 
Rose was our witness.’’ 

“Your maid — your confederate,’’ sneered the Judge. 
“No certificate could be found, nor was the man, the 
minister you mentioned in your ravings, ever heard 
of here. It was all a lie. Well, the man is dead 
— carrion — shot by your brother, who saved the 
honor of his familj^ but lost his own life. Both 
my sons buried here,’’ said the old Judge brokenly, 
his white head drooping, his lips quivering. Then 
Virginia noticed that her father had suddenly grown 
aged and feeble. “Both my sons dead, my brave, 
noble sons, and such a thing as you left! God pity 
me! Don’t speak. From this time till I die no 
word to you will ever pass my lips. You have dis 
graced me here — yet here will I stay. I will see 
no one, have no one come here until I am dead, 
and you shall feel that you — you alone — have cut 
off from me every hope, every ambition — left me a 
wreck — left me childless — dishonored in my old age. 
This may serve to keep you from new lovers, to 
hold you back until I am gone. Never from this 
moment speak to me nor look at me — I am no more 
your father! The house is big enough for us to 
live apart, and apart we will live as long as there 
is breath in my body.’’ 

Then her father left her, and Virginia, stunned 
and heart-broken, saw the long years lying far be- 


30 


A SECRET MARRIAGE 


fore her as dreary and monotonous as the barren 
plains under the scorching sun. 


CHAPTER III 


THE ‘MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD. 

“How fleet the works of men, back to the earth again, 
Ancient and holy things fade like a dream,” 

muttered old Johnny MacDonald as he staggered 
along through the streets of Denver one night two 
years after Virginia Wallace had lost husband and 
brother and a father’s love. "But the works uv 
men’ll last ’em out. My work’ll outlast me — done 
a heap on it, ’n tarnel hard work crawling out on 
judgment day, for I sodded ’em deep. Mac," he 
went on with drunken gravity as he tracked along 
the uneven street that boasted as yet no sidewalk: 
"Mac, you’re jestin’ on ’ligion — tain’t good taste — 
’ligion’s treated due respect. They wants sidewalks 

here. Council be . Road’s good nuff for me. 

Arsked me my ’pinion. ^Feller citizens,’ I sez, 
^when I go down to Bowen’s saloon one plank’ll 
do me — when I go back home two planks hain’t big 
’nuff.’ M37 pronunciation’s ruined. I was well ed- 
dicated. 1 ’ m Oxford man. Look at me now. Sunk 
to this level, diggin’ graves for dead-beats. That’s 
what the rum j)ower does." 

"Hi, Mac!" called a party of miners passing. The 
grave-digger, much insulted by their familiarity, sat 
31 


32 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


down by a deserted adobe hut and wept copiously. 

"rm pretty drunk when I get to the water stage,'’ 
he said, sagely, “’n’less Mary comes there won’t 
be no MacDonald to respond to his Julia’s call. 
Them steps is a paralyzer. ” While he sat there a 
quick change from light to darkness took place. 
There is no twilight in Colorado — once the sun is 
gone night comes like a black shadow. Along the 
crooked, uneven streets of Denver were mud huts, 
loghouses, saloons built of wood, some decent resi- 
dences and stores, a church and more saloons. In 
fact, the saloons seemed to be the most popular 
part of the town. A few grand old cottonwoods, 
the growth of centuries, towered above the village, 
dumb reminders of its pea.ceful past before the 
pioneer’s axe echoed along the Platte. Groups of 
roughly clothed, bearded men went from one saloon 
to another or gathered in crowds outside some door. 
Women — now the great ladies of Denver — stood in 
their doorways and gossiped with their neighbors; 
all calico clad, and many of them still wearing the 
gingham sunbonnets they were seldom without in 
the day-time. Here and there a woman’s figure 
slunk into a saloon. The wretched creatures are always 
in a new settlement, a rank growth of the frontier. 
Playing in the sand of the road, or whooping and 
yelling in blindman’s buff or puss-in-the-corner, 
were lots of dirty, ragged youngsters now the heir- 
esses and rich men of a great city. Everybody was 
talking of the funeral that day, and many were the 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


33 


comments and speculations about it. The people 
of Denver were neglected — not one had been invited 
— the minister was the only one who was admitted, 
and he, to use a territorial expression, “was as close- 
mouthed as an oyster." Mrs. Collins, who had great 
interest in all the affairs of the settlement and was a 
weekly edition of society news, made up her mind 
that when it was a little darker she would run up 
to MacDonald^ s to find out all about it, and no one 
would be, the wiser. 

MacDonald’s residence was a filthy loft over a 
grocery store. Near it was a large cottonwood 
affording shade and coolness, and so situated was 
his abode that the river ran within easy walking 
distance. This was pleasant for, though neither 
MacDonald nor his housekeeper was addicted to 
water as a beverage, or as a preventative of dirt, 
yet it as consoling to know water was accessible. 
A steep flight of steps outside the store led to his 
house, and these steps with a shaky handrail were 
a source of much hardship and some danger to 
MacDonald and his housekeeper. 

Mac leaned his head against the adobe wall of 
the hut and went peacefully to sleep, while a few 
hungry rats sniffed at him, and a vagabond dog — 
no one knows how he crossed the plains, but fore- 
most in the advance of civilization this vagabond 
dog has always been found — sat beside him in good 
fellowship. By and by, a slight, childish figure 
glided down the street, looking into one saloon 
8D 


34 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


after another. Bowen’s windows were too high, so 
she flung open the door, and went in. The crowd 
of men gambling and drinking, with noisy laughter 
and vulgar jests, did not frighten her. She called 
a few women by name. ‘‘Hullo, Sal! Hullo, Jin!" 
in a shrill, childish voice, then she went up to the 
bar. Her head just came to the top of the counter. 
She looked about nine years old, stunted and under- 
sized. Her face was thin and dirty; her light hair 
hung in long straight locks, that seldom knew a 
comb, she had on a mere rag of a gown, as filthy 
and unkempt as her general appearance. She shuf- 
fled along in a pair of Julia’s gaiters, but her thin 
legs were bare and bruised. Still the bright dark 
eyes that peered over the counter were beautiful, 
and perhaps vif Mary MacDonald had been the child 
of loving parents she might have been sweet and 
attractive. She rapped a skinny, claw-like hand on 
the counter: 

‘‘Hi, Bowen!” she yelled shrilly. A fat, red-faced 
man, with a diamond stud in his wide expanse of 
shirt-front, rested his aldermanic stomach against 
the counter looking down on the mite. 

"Wal, Mary?" he said kindly. 

"Pap bin here? Julier’s madder ’n Injuns. I’ll 
get licked ef I don’t git him home." 

"Went out an hour ago,” answered Bowen regret- 
fully. "’Tis too bad they lick yer so, Mary. Yer 
hain’t a bad gurl. Show ’em yer arm now." 

Mary turned to a table of men and pulled up her 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


35 


tattered sleeve. The poor little arm was black and 
blue in big, round spots while across below her 
elbow were deep red gashes. Those rough men 
were dumb with horror. 

“It’s a durned shame,” cried Sal McGinnis, a 
big, blonde girl. “Here, Mary, me dear, take it,” 
forcing a bracelet on the skinny arm. “I’m ded 
broke or I’d give ye money” Sal knew bracelets 
consoled her in times of peace after a war. Mary 
shook the bracelet up and down her arm. 

“Burn purty, she said, handing it back with a 
sigh. “Jule ’ud git it, though, ’n more lickins ’ud 
foller; ’bliged to yer. ” 

“Drink this, petite,” urged a fat little French- 
woman, very gay in bright colors with much dub- 
ious jewelry. “You look hungry. It will warm 
you. Pauvre, petite.” 

“T’won’t make me lushy, will’t?” asked Mary 
cautiously; “two drinkers is enuff in one fam’ly. ’n 
yer don’t know wot them stairs is.” 

“It’s half water,” said Sal, forcing it on the 
child. Mary took the mug and with a knowing 
wink at the company tossed it down at a gulp. 

“It’s good ’n warmin’,” she said, wiping her mouth 
with the hem of her dress, “but it’s wot’s stunted 
my growth— made me leetle. I’ll swear off some 
day. Bonjer!”in sarcastic imitation of the French- 
woman. 

“Bon soir, ” corrected the Frenchwoman; amid 
the laughter Mary slammed the door and went out. 


36 THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 

"He’s by Flint’s old hut," said a miner passing 
her in the darkness, recognizing the familiar little 
figure on the usual errand. So Mary found her 
father. She woke him up, and patted the dog. 
Then followed by the canine, now devoted till 
death, the two went down to Dodge’s store. 

"You hain’t been drinking, Mary,” asked Mac 
suspiciously, as he halted at the foot of the stairs. 

"Yer smell yer own breath," said Mary with great 
contempt; alternately boosting and hauling, all the 
while uttering shrill oaths and keeping up an angry 
scolding, she got him to the top of the stairs. Then 
she opened the door and he stumbled into an un- 
plastered room with rough board floor and dirty 
windows. This room was modestly divided into 
sections by canvas curtains. There was a kitchen, 
where there was a stove, a dining-room that had a 
table and boxes for seats; three bed rooms, with a 
heap of dirty blankets in each, and lastly the parlor 
containing three chairs, a box and a china vase on 
a shelf on the wall. This vase Mary thought was 
the most precious and most beautiful thing she had 
ever seen. 

Julia Mullen, whom Mac termed his housekeeper, 
was a thin, tall woman, with large, pale blue eyes, 
and a scant growth of mud-colored hair, beginning 
at such a distance from her eyebrows that her dome- 
like forehead gave her the appearance of a bald 
eagle. Her teeth were mostly gone, only a few 
dark tusks showed when she smiled, and her skin. 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


V 


browned and wrinkled from exposure and intemper- 
ance, was like an Indian’s. Her dress was of calico, 
but long use had deprived it of all color and shape. 
She dished up a rabbit on the dining-room table 
while Mary waited on them. 

“It is an honored custom in the country where 
my ancestors lived, my Julia,” said Mac, lifting his 
fork in an uncertain way, as if he felt there might 
be difficulty in finding his mouth, “ter make the 
daughter of the house wait on the noble guests, 
eh? I’m ’n honored guest. Mary, daughter —logic 
— therefore — ” 

“Eat yer dinner or yer’ll never git through," 
snapped Julia, inattentively. “Yer git longer-winded 
every time yer full.” 

Mac’s good-humored face with its shock of red- 
dish hair and dark eyes took on a submissive look, 
as he said with great admiration and animation: 

“Julia, you’d overturn the tribunals of ansunt 
Rome. What a Herodias you’d make abringin’ a 
hed on a platter.'’ 

“Yer git along ’n quit listenin’,” said Julia, anx- 
ious to vent her angry feelings on some one. She 
threw a potato at the child, who dodged, and it 
struck instead the vase in the“parler. ” The potato 
was hard and the vase fell on the floor, breaking 
into a hundred pieces. 

“Yer made me do’t, yer jade,” cried the woman, 
purple with rage. “I’ll break every bone in yer 
body! ’’ 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


3S 

"I never meaned it,” sobbed Mary, trembling so 
she could hardly stand. ‘‘I’d never dodged ef I’d 
knowed it. Ye hove the ’tater yerself.” 

“Run, Mary,” called Mac, composedly eating his 
rabbit. The child started, but Julia sprang after 
her, caught her by the shoulder, pulled her hair, 
scratched her face, and then opening the door flung 
the child down the steep stairs. 

“What have you done!” cried Mac sobered by the 
sound of the falling body and by the low moans. 
“They’ll hang us both.” 

"We kin say she fell,” muttered Julia holding the 
man back. “Sh — sh — she’s runnin’ off. Can’t be 
bad hurt. She’ll come back. No such luck as ter 
kill her. Hullo, sum’uns cornin’. Who kin it be?” 

Just then the door opened, and a great, hand- 
some woman, well dressed, came in, followed by a 
woman carrying a child, while a small man brought 
up in the rear. 

"Why, Rose McCord!” cried Julia, much pleased. 
"Sure, its an honor when you come to our humble 
abode. Set in the parlor — Mac, bring in some seats 
outer the dinin’ nroom. Yer men’ll hev ter set jest 
outside the parlor, tain’t mor’n big ’nuff fur us 
ladies ter be comfurnable in. Now, Rose darlin’, 
who’s the lady that’s got eyes loike ye, an’ seems 
eenmost nuff similer to ye ter be the same stock? 
And the foine lookin’ gintlemin? Sure I’d know 
now he’s a man uv prop’ty. ” 

"He’s got some, ” answered Rose graciously. "This 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


39 


is Miss Mullen, my friend Mrs. Johnson and Mr. 
Johnson, and that gentleman’s Mr. MacDonald. I 
believe that is all. My friends have just come out 
here Mr. Johnson’s, a nephew of the Johnson who 
died up at Desperation Gulch. He’s going to work 
the claim.” 

“My name’s Missus, please,” said Julia with be- 
coming meekness. "In this new town it’s best ter 
begin right about sich things, though Miss an’ Mis- 
sus hain’t so fur diff’rent as spelin’ is concarned as 
might be — but, laws, harf the foks come outer here 
’thout their rale name bein’ knowed, an’ I don’t go 
inter c’iety hardly enny, it bein’ so mixed and pro- 
miscus like." 

“I know jest how ’tis,” said Mrs. Johnson sym- 
pathetically — a coarse, large-featured woman with an 
ugly, sullen face. Mr. Johnson was meagre, with 
small weazined face and little black eyes under 
shaggy eyebrows. 

"Is that yer little gurl, now?" asked Mrs. Mullen, 
as Mrs. Johnson with an energetic push sent the 
child who was clinging to her skirts outside the 
canvas curtain. 

"Yes, the only one left of seven, and troublesome 
she is." 

"Purty, though," simpered Mrs. Mullen, "them 
dark blue eyes an’ yeller curls must look sum’at as 
I done at her age. I was a rale blonde, mother 
alius said, ’n my hair was like corn silk." 

"I’d believe it," said Mrs. Johnson enthusiasti- 


40 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


cally, for just at that moment MacDonald produced 
a generous looking bottle and collected a number 
of tin-cups. 

"None for me," said Rose trying to conceal her 
disgust, for the cups were dirty and one she saw 
had been used to keep a comb and hairpins in. "I 
never drink whisky; it hurts my heart in this cli- 
mate. " 

"There’s more for us,” grinned Mac with a feeble 
attempt to be jovial. 

"Mac, yer wulger, indade," snapped Julia, already 
in her second cup. "Folks’ll think hard of ye, ’n 
it’ll reflect on me, wot’s hed two turns at hordin’ 
school, ’n the extras ter." 

These "two turns” at boarding school were fictions 
that Mrs. Mullen had grown to believe in form re- 
peating constantly. Her mother had done clear- 
starching for the young ladies at a seminary and 
Julia had carried the clothes back and forth. 

"Julia’s a thoroughbred," said Mac with a drunken 
leer. "She’s ’n ornament to Denver. Speaking of 
Denver makes me think of when West Denver was 
Auraria ’stid of Denver. The boys could always 
tell how far gone I was by getting me to say Aura- 
ria; when I got to saying Au-ra-ra-ra-r-er, then they 
knowed I was a gone case. Queer how a little 
thing’ll show the workings of a marster mind." 

"You’ve got a mind above your business," smiled 
Rose. "You a grave-digger now.” 

"An’ that makes me think of the funeral to-day," 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


41 


said Mac with a tipsy bow. "Queerest one I ever 
saw. 1 drove my wagon over to Highlands along 
with the box for the stiff. All the one there was 
the parson and a nigger — old Sam, and he and I 
laid the corpse in the box — and the box was as 
handsome as it could be made here. The Judge 
didn’t weigh a hundred, and a grim old corpse he 
was. Angels never laid out to welcome him I’ll 
bet. Well, I set out and held the plugs, but I 
could peep in the house and there sot Sam and a 
nigger wench, Miss Rose here all in black and nigh 
her another woman with a wale over her face, which 
I took to be the daughter by her walk and the way 
she set. There was good blood in those Wallaces 
if they did pan out so bad." 

"Go on," said Rose impatiently, "what else did 
you see?" 

"Only the parson preaching, then we took the 
body out to the wagon. The Judge left word he 
didn’t want any pall-bearers. I’ve heard he never 
got over that row there and his son’s murder." 

"He never did," answered Rose; "he changed 
from the moment of the disgrace, he never spoke to 
Virginia after it. He shut her out from his room 
and died without seeing her, but the fool forgot and 
never made a will, so all the money’s hers, and 
she’s rich.’ 

"I don’t see why he was a fool not to make a 
will leaving her out," said Mac, suspiciously. "A 
father ought to stand by his own young ones." 


42 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


"Oh, yer talk,” cried Mrs. Mullen, with asperity. 
"Words is plenty, talk’s cheap. Yer wan’t niver 
given ter carrin’ fer yer young’iins. Look’t Mary, 
now, ’n yer sed yer run off from Scotland ’n left a 
wife ’n boy.” 

"I did, Juliet, I did — cusses on this venerable 
head, ”said Mac; "was married to an angel. I was the 
other sort. I spent her money and I tried to teach 
her to enjoy it, but she was too angelic, so when 
the money was gone I lit out — to use the expressive 
language of this region. I never heard of her from 
that day to this. She was a lady born like the Wal- 
lace woman, but my wife wa’n’t like her. She was 
a chunk of ice, hard and unforgiving. Lord how 
she’d play on the planner and paint. My tastes 
was always low; I’m as happy now as I ever was 
in my fine house.^ I’d ruther see life, I’druther — ” 
finished Mac with a concluding burst of eloquence, 
"be a wild antelope a galloping over the plain then 
be a stall-fed ox!" 

"But your boy’s name?” cried Rose with sup- 
pressed excitement, "and is MacDonald your own 
name? ” 

I never knowed what he was called,” answered 
Mac, filling his cup; "he was a kid in arms when 
I skipped. MacDonald is my own name — and my 
forefather’s — 

“One of the few, the immortal names. 

That were not born to die.” 

I can quote volumes of poetry after another 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD. 


43 


glass. Julia, you’ve had your share. Give me a 
drink! I come, fair Rose, from Newcastle on the 
Tyne. I wandered into Scottish lands, I wedded 
a chieftain’s daughter. 

“To see her is to love her, 

And love but her forever,” 

"Hain’t yer going to tell us ’bout the quality’s 
funeral?” said Mrs. Johnson, in that stage of liquor 
to feel a grievance keenly. 

“Bless your interestingface!” answered Mac, fill- 
ing the lady’s cup; “to proceed. I drove the old 
man to the boneyard — which is Western for grave- 
yard — Miss Wallace and the parson followed me in 
the family carriage, then Miss Rose here and the 
nigger woman in a wagon. After the old man was 
planted and tucked in warm, which I does with a 
spade, the parson walks back to town and the wagon 
drives off, old Sam waits with the family carriage 
in the road while the Missus comes up to me and 
says:” 

“Says?” repeated Rose, leaning her chin on her 
large white hand and devouring the man with her 
eyes. 

“‘Mister Mac,’ — she thought my name was that, 
hearing me called by it, — ‘Did you ever bury a man 
here who was shot by my brother; MacDonald was 
his name?’ ” 

“I led the lady to a sorter little knoll up the 
hill. It had been a long time since he was buried, 
and grass and flowers had growed all over his grave. ” 


^ |. THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 

“‘I know the very place/ I says, ‘here; his name 
was sum’at the same as mine, marm, and I’m a 
clannish man. Therefore, though I couldn’t plant 
him with the quality folks what paid for their land, 
I put him there by himself away from them that 
died with their boots on — which is refined conceal- 
ment in language for saying they were hung. And 
away from the paupers that had none to care where 
they was buried.’ 

"She didn’t speak but put money in my hand and 
went to the grave. She stayed there a long time, 
a black, sorrowful figure, and I pitied her. It 
seemed as if she couldn’t cry, that she had lost all 
her tears years ago. Then she came back to me. 

"‘You saw him?’ she says. 

"‘Oh yes,’ I answers. "A fine, handsome corpse, 
peaceful-looking, and dressed in regimentals. 

"‘Peaceful-looking, ’ she repeats over to herself: 
‘I’m not bound now. I will make his grave bloom 
like a garden.’ With that — forgetting probably 
she’d give me money afore — she slid a couple more 
gold pieces in my hand and walks off. I come home 
and had a little toning up after the ordeal, which 
is all I can tell you about the funeral." 

Just then uncertain footsteps came up the stairs 
and poor little Mary, her face discolored and bloody 
from her fall, limping painfully, slid into the room 
and went into one of the canvas-walled bed-rooms, 
where little Jane tumbled on the heap of blankets 
was sound asleep. 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


45 


“Is that your own child, Mr. MacDonald?” asked 
Rose. 

“I don’t know exactly how to answer your inquiry,” 
said Mac with much dignity and a great effort to 
steady himself on a pair of tottering legs. “She is 
after a fashion; perhaps she might be called an in- 
discretion. Some years ago I married a lady with 
convivial habits and some property, and this is our 
child. Still, if my first lady was alive and was 
alive at the time — 

‘But still within my bosom’s core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary,’ ” 

“Mrs. Johnson wanted a child to take with her to 
the Gulch to look after Jane,” said Rose, rising to 
go. “The girl she brought from the east died on 
the way. Could you let her have Mary?” 

She’s such a little creature,” said Mrs. Johnson 
fretfully. Mr. Johnson made no remark. After 
the liquor was served he had slept peacefully through 
the call. 

“She’s a good worker, though,” put in Mrs. Mullen, 
eagerly. “Never tired, hain’t got no sassy ways, 
neither. He’ll let her go.” 

“The country air would do Mary good,” said Mac, 
with an expression of deep anxiety. “The dissipa- 
tion of the city makes her pale and wan and wilts 
the roses on her cheek. But her outfit must be con- 
sidered. She has not the wardrobe to go on a 
journey. If I mistake not that calico slip — which 
from exceeding lankness, or rather skimpiness, con- 


46 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


veys the impression that she has little or no cloth- 
ing underneath it, and those gaiters, which once 
held the delicate feet of my Juliet, my mullen— why 
not hollyhock— my chrysanthemum, are all my Mary’s 
personal effects. Her defects are unfortunately with- 
in; we can not remedy them." 

"You mean,” said Rose, curtly, "that you want 
money for the child. You would sell your interest 
in her. Mr. Johnson’s wagons are below; I hear the 
driver shouting. It’s moonlight, so he goes to-night. 
I have no time to bandy words. I’ll answer for Mr. 
Johnson, who sleeps like a dead man proving the 
goodness of your liquor. Will ten dollars do?” 

“It will,” answered Julia decisively. "If it don’t 
why then Mac kin git board sum where else, I hain’t 
goin’ ter ’sport him an’ the brat both. Giv’ me the 
money. I’ll take it.” 

Rose put it in the woman’s hand. Mac, overcome 
by the last cup,dropped his head on his outstretched 
arms, neither knowing nor caring what would be 
done now, in a happy state, the final stage of drunk- 
enness with him. 

"Come,” said Rose looking into the bedroom. 
"Bring the child. You’re to go with this kind lady. ” 

"Never come back no more?” asked Mary, with 
wide eyes unable to believe the good news. 

"Never,” said Rose. "See that you work hard. 
Bring Jane." 

Rose followed Mrs. Mullen down; after them 
came Mrs. Johnson much flustered from her exer- 


THE MACDONALD HOUSEHOLD 


47 


tions in waking Mr. Johnson, and lastly Mary, car- 
rying the child — such a heavy weight for the poor 
little arms. Mary stopped a moment at the door 
then crept back to her father. 

“Pap, pap, say good-by; you’ll never see me no 
more. " 

He muttered something harsh in his drunken 
sleep, and pushed her away. Tears came into her 
sad eyes— so used to tears — but she staggered bravely 
across the floor. 

“Air yer niver cornin’? “ yelled Mrs. Mullen, long- 
ing to give her a farewell blow. 

“Yeah,” said Mary, taking a new hold of the 
child. This woke little Jane. She wound her fat 
arms around her bearer’s neck and smiled up in the 
poor, thin face. 

“I love ’ou, '* she lisped in her sweet baby faith. 

Mary, scarce comprehending her new found joy, 
to be loved, to be kissed by this sweet baby, to 
care for her, to guard her with her life, held her 
closer, and panting and trembling for fear she 
should let her fall, went down the rickety stairs she 
would never climb again. 


CHAPTER IV 


DESPERATION GULCH 

Cherry Creek runs through Denver and empties 
into the Platte. Its sands are rich with gold, and 
in the early days of Colorado miners swarmed along 
its banks panning for the shining dust. Some forty 
miles up the creek there had been large finds, and 
here was what might be called a boom, for a large 
number of men were working and they had built 
cabins and the usual saloon. The place was wild 
and picturesque; a deep valley hedged in with rocky 
hills, covered by a dense growth of pine. Down 
the valley were numberless sandy creeks — dry beds 
most of the 5^ear but just now full to overflowing 
from rains. All was life and bustle. On each side 
of the creeks were lines of men swashing pans that 
glinted in the sun. On some claims were wooden 
cradles or rockers that rocked the baser stuff away, 
saving the black sancj and gold. Notwithstanding 
the many men, there was no noisy talk and laughter. 
All was breathless hope and labor, and fever for 
gain that soft spring day in Desperation Gulch. 
One of the sandy creeks was named for a curious 
old man who came ther.e in ’56 and delved and dug 
and hoped till his heart broke. He died six months 
48 


DESPERATION GULCH 


49 


before, with faith there was rich mineral on his land 
though never to be found by him, No one worked 
“Old man Johnson’s" claim this busy day. There 
is a strong spirit of honor among miners otherwise 
lawless. They would not wash one panful of the 
sand on that dead man’s land, nor would they open 
the unlocked door of his log cabin, standing silent 
and lonely half way up a pine clad hill — a little 
path running from it down to the creek; a path 
worn by weary feet coming each day to new disap- 
pointment and despair. Johnson’s claim lay vacant, 
waiting for his nephew to come. The old man had 
written hopefully of his land and his prospective 
wealth, desired his nephew to carry on his work and 
find what he had sought so long. The miners knew 
there was a nephew, and the claim was as safe as if 
a guard were standing over it all the time. 

Below Johnson’s claim, on the same creek, was 
Henry Curtis’ claim, and here two men were work- 
ing. The two claims were hidden from the rest by 
a small rise or mound. One of these workers was a 
thick-set man with reddish hair and beard and 
shifty, evil, eyes. His face was tanned and scarred, 
his hair and beard unkempt. His red flannel shirt 
was dirty and ragged, his long boots, half covering 
filthy overalls, were worn and full of holes. The 
other man’s clothes were of good material, his decent 
blue flannel shirt was clean and whole, and a gold 
watch-chain hung from his belt, that also held a 
bowie-knife and revolver. His face was thin, his 

4D 


50 


DESPERATION GULCH 


chin pointed, his lips scarlet, a mere thread; his 
skin was a pale olive, the sun only turned darker. 
His eyes black and small, were hidden by heavy 
lids seldom raised far enough to show the pupils. 
A carefully trimmed black mustache covered his evil 
mouth, and hanging over his shoulders was long, 
black hair straight as an Indian’s. It was noticea- 
ble that though the other man puffed and panted, this- 
man worked without any apparent effort; even on 
his high shining forehead there was no sign of pers- 
piration. 

“Curse me ef I see how you kin stoop here and 
work a forenoon stiddy and never straighten up 
your back nor stop to breathe,” said the red-bearded 
man, dropping his pan to mop his forehead. 

“It’s a science, Tom,” said the other. “I mean 
to get rich and enjoy my money. You won’t enjoy 
your money. Somebody else will, for you may get 
rich, but you’ll be too worn out to spend it. You 
are working for posterity, I for prosperity.” 

“Mebbe you got your science where you had to,” 
sneered Tom. 

“Wrong, my friend,” said the dark man, just show- 
ing his teeth in a half smile that gave him the look 
of a snarling wolf. His lips were so thin that to 
smile he merely drew up his upper one a trifle. The 
effect was horrible and made Curtis dreaded and 
disliked by the miners, who counted his presence in 
a camp a misfortune. 

I never was in prison, ’’said the dark man throw- 


DESPERATION GULCH 


51 


ing himself on his back, locking his arms under his 
head, and looking up to the blue sky. “I may have 
deserved it, but I escaped. I’m a descendant of a 
fine old fellow of Puritan stock. My father married 
a French Canadian, a tigerish creature. 1 was the 
pledge of their unhappy union. Father died sud- 
denly, mysteriously, leaving some money. Ma mere 
educated me. I graduated at Harvard with high 
honors; then I married the daughter of a very de- 
cent old Bostoner, a rich ship owner. You’ve seen 
my wife over the hill, eh, and the boy? I forged 
father-in-law’s name to a check. Ma mere gave me 
money to come here, and her curse also, a warning 
to keep out of reach of the law. He thinks I fled 
abroad. He’d forgive me and pay me well if I 
would give up the wife and boy. The old villain 
would make a hermit of me. That’s the story! 
Oh, not all, perhaps. In Kansas, a quarrel over 
cards, a man said I cheated — one man the less. 
Maybe, the poor devil spoke the truth. But the 
truth is offensive at times — brutally so. Brooks, 
my friend — your name is so pastoral, reminds me 
of the woods and glens under a summer’s sky — you 
and I will make fame and fortune yet.” 

“We’ve been here over four years and hain’t seen 
nothing so far,” said Brooks, sullenly. He was 
sitting with his elbows on his knees looking idly at 
old Johnson’s log hut. Curtis raised himself on 
his arm and looked also at the hill and cabin. 

“You and 1, Brooks, will buy that claim and that 
cabin.” 


52 


DESPERATION GULCH 


"What for?" muttered Brooks, ungraciously. 
"Johnson never made no millions on it." 

"Johnson was a fool,” said the other, a bright 
light coming into his snaky eyes. He leaned for- 
ward and said in a hoarse Vv^hisper: "I’ll not look 
along this barren creek for grains of gold, nor dig 
in fool efforts to find a nugget, nor creep along 
some other man’s land to find, higher up, a source. 
This gold may come from the tops of the moun- 
tains for all we know. Johnson’s claim is the head 
of this creek, yet he found no more gold .than we; 
every rain in the spring that fills these courses 
leaves more and more gold, and where does it come 
from? Pah, I’ve thought of it till I’m sick with 
the idea. No Brooks, I’ll tear down that hut. I’ll 
go to the bowels of the earth. I’ll wrest the secret 
that hill hides — silver, man, silver!” 

Breathless, Brooks waited till the end, then he 
sprang to his feet, trembling with eagerness. 

"Now, Curtis, now — No time to waste. You speak 
like a prophet, I know it’s there! Why wait and 
lose it all? Some one else will find it. More are 
coming every day. There’ll be other smart ones 
’mongst ’em." 

"These men here will stop us. They will insist 
the land belongs to Johnson’s nephew. We are not 
popular and some fine day you and I would bedang- 
ling on one of those pine trees, fruit for the mag- 
pies to peck at. I will by fraud or force wrest that 
land from the new man, He’ll be green and easy 


DESPERATION GULCH 


53 


to gull. There's our hope, man. Not a hope but 
a surety.” 

“And there,” said Brooks with malevolent look 
and muttered curse, “is the new man that yer to 
work on, who’s to make us rich or poorer than we 
be now!” 

Curtis looked in the direction he indicated, and 
saw descending the hill toward the log hut a white- 
covered wagon drawn b}" two bony old horses who 
stumbled painfully over the pine stumps and uneven 
places in the rough road as if their strength had 
been exhausted by a long journey. 

A lank, overgrown youth jumped out of the wagon 
first, then Mr. Johnson, skinny and sober — a much 
worse man than Mr. Johnson drunk — then Mrs. 
Johnson, portly and red-faced, showing some liber- 
ality in display of a red petticoat, white cotton 
stockings, and cloth gaiters; then a pale, thin child 
lifting out a fat baby some two or three years old, 
and being smartly cuffed for her awkwardness. 
Poor Mary found she had only changed one hard 
task mistress for another, for Mrs. Johnson's idea of 
a servant was one of small size, with an ear in easy 
cuffable reach, and of so shrinking a nature as to 
bear abuse without complaint. 

“There's enough of 'em,” said Brooks gloomily. 

“It does look discouraging,” said Curtis, “but my 
calculations are that the family consists of the stout 
lady who seems to be the head, the oldish man, 
probably her husband, and the little ones, probably 


54 


DESPERATION GULCH 


their children. However, I won’t borrow trouble. 
Let’s take a half -holiday anyway.” 

So they diappeared, and the Johnsons remained 
sole occupants of the claim. The next day the 
teamster and team went away, for they were only 
hired, and Mr. Johnson, in miner^s clothing, with 
the air of a proprietor, came down to his claim. 
To Curtis’ surprise he knew how to w^ash for gold 
and manifested no verdancy at all. Besides, he was 
uncommunicative and distant, showing no desire to 
get acquainted. In a few days the following sign, 
painted in large black letters, sent a thrill of ex- 
pectation and a general warmth down the valley for 
the saloon was a mile away over the hills: 

"Liker Sold Hear.” 

Poor old Johnson’s path was well worn now and 
curved and crooked like the walk of the customers 
who came down. 

"Looks like them Johnsons is goin’ ter run the 
Gulch,” cried Brooks, savagely, as day after day 
passed and business grew brisker up the path and 
Johnson worked away steadily down the path on 
his claim. 

"You’ll never be a great man; you can’t wait. 
Brooks,” said Curtis quietly, not a whit upset or 
turned aside from his purpose. 

Little Jane was a great pet among the miners, 
but few of them ever saw Mary. The child lived 
in the kitchen where she scrubbed and cooked and 
even washed for the miners, for Mrs. Johnson was 


DESPERATION GULCH 


55 


not above making an honest penny when she could. 
With tasks far beyond her strength, Mary had yet 
a bitterer burden. Mr. Johnson, when sober, was 
in a chronic state of malice and viciousness, and he 
would beat her. Mrs. Johnson, when drunk — for 
she generally was in that state now, as bartender 
and of the fair sex, being subject to treats from 
generous customers — was irritable and, needing some 
one to vent her ill-humor and temper on, took Mary. 
Often Jane suffered, but Mary saved her when she 
could and bore on her thin shoulders deep red marks 
that might have bruised the soft flesh of the little 
child. 

Winter came on and the miners left the Gulch 
for the village over the hill and took up their quar- 
ters for the season. Thus a source of revenue was 
cut off from the Gulch, and the sign mournfull}'' ap- 
pealed to the pines that whispered soft condolence. 
Mr. Johnson, finding drink more agreeable than 
food, worked himself into a kind of torpid state 
where a certain quantity of liquor kept him in a 
condition of sleepy serenity the fire comfort enhanced, 
Mrs. Johnson seldom spared the bottle, and she in- 
dulged at times in such maniacal outbursts of rage 
Mary often fled for her life. The poor children 
slept in an upper loft, their covering a few filthy 
gunny sacks, for the more liquor Mrs. Johnson got 
the meaner she became. All the food the children 
had was the broken scraps left from the Johnson’s 
table, and once when frying mush Mary stole a slice 


56 DESPERATION GULCH 

she was beaten insensible by the furious woman. 

Mary, still in that tattered calico, with bare legs 
and bare arms, hatless, without even a shawl, gath- 
ered wood on the piney hills, and Jane helped her. 
Pitiful baby Jane, grown thin and lank — a bony 
little creature with big sorrowful blue eyes and soft 
yellow curls her faithful friend curled with her 
fingers. Cold little Jane in her ragged cape and 
torn shoes. Sometimes when there came those soft 
warm days that come in midwinter in Colorado, 
and are full of the breath of spring, the. two poor 
mites would curl up in a sunny spot, by a gnarled 
old pine, warm their half frozen arms in the bright 
sunshine and cuddle close together, forgetting their 
sorrows. One day they were sitting there, when 
they heard the bushes snap and break; Mary, too 
frightened to move, thinking it was Mrs. Johnson, 
clung to Jane, who had fallen asleep. Instead of 
the harsh, brutal woman, a little lad near Mary’s 
age, came out of the woods, and looked at them 
with big brown eyes shining with surprise. 

“Why, you poor little things,” he cried, ain’t 
you the babes in the woods, and didn’t the robins 
cover you with leaves?” 

“Who be you?” asked Mary, aggressively. 

“I’m Captain William Hawley Curtis, named after 
gran’father, in Boston, who owns ships that sail on 
the water like — like everything. Me and my mother 
lives over there. We come ’cross the plains in a 
wagon.” 






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WILLY, GIVE THEM YOUR LUNCHEON,” SAID THE LADY. 





DESPERATION GULCH 


57 


*'So did I,” said Mary, much interested; "ours 
had oxen." 

"Ours had horses — good ones," said Willy. "We 
saw Injuns, too." 

"So’d we, an’ they fired at us, too." 

"Who’s she?" whispered Willy, -peeping into 
Jane’s sleeping face. "Your sister?" 

"I hain’t none. She’s Jane; lives where I wurks. 
I kin wash, ’n iron, ’n cook.” 

"Mother, mother, here’s two little lost girls," 
shouted William Hawley, running to the bushes, 
where a lady was struggling to get through; "ain’t 
they funny? See, the baby’s waking up!" 

"What pretty blue eyes!" 

The lady was thin and slight, much wasted by 
illness and mental suffering. Her brown eyes looked 
unearthly, they were so large in her sunken face. 
She coughed and put up a bony hand to her breast 
before she could speak; then she spoke to Mary. 
Mary, nothing loth, told all her history and Jane’s, 
and Jane waking up made herself very popular 
with Willy and his mother. 

"Willy, give them your luncheon,” said the lady; 
"I know they would like it." 

The lad without a word took a slice of bread and 
butter from his pocket and handed it to Mary, who 
gave it all but the hard crusts to Jane. 

"Jane’s hungry," she said, apologetically, "but 
she don’t like crusts. I hain’t hungry at all,though 
I’ll eat these ’ere crusts so they won’t be wasted." 


58 


DEIPERATION GUTCH 


Mrs. Curtis looked at the generous child. She 
knew she was hungry— the starved white face — the 
pitiful eyes. She went nearer to her, then shrank 
back with a low cry. On one side of Mary’s head, 
half covered by the matted hair, was an unhealed 
gash, made by some blunt instrument; on her skinny 
bare arms were black and blue marks, and her tat- 
tered sleeve just hid a deep purple bruise. On her 
right leg, above the torn gaiter, was a cut made by 
a hatchet, and this was festering. Her fingers and 
the bare toes showing through the holes in her 
shoes were raw and bleeding with chilblains. Lit- 
tle Jane was not much better, but her bruises were 
not so severe. 

“Who did this? asked Mrs. Curtis, in a- choked 
voice, “and these awful bruises! 

“Some of the black marks has been on a long 
time, but I guess Mis’ Mullen’s is most wore off, 
answered Mary, gnawing away on the crust, making 
it last as long as she could ; “old Johnson’s is them, 
but that cut on my bed’s hern; that on my leg’s 
where she hove the hatchet on me, and them pinches 
is her’n. Me an’ Jane hez gunny sacks fur beds ’n 
its cold, I tell yer. Them’s chilblains, but the rest 
of ’em’s freeze; I can’t use them two fingers ’tall, 
’n they aches most on the time.’' 

Just then a yell echoed up the hill. 

That’s her callin’," said Mary; “me ’n Jane’s got 
ter run, or we’ll git h — 1. Good bye, lady; yer like 
picturs I’ve seed back East in churches — wimmen 


DESPERATION GULCH 


59 


holdin’ a baby, I guess that baby was him wot is 
growed now.” 

' Poor little thing!" cried the lady, tears in her 
sad eyes. 

"Ain’t it all bad she’s sohurted?" said Willy, fuU 
of sympathy. "You poor little things. I’ll bring 
you my bread every day can’t I, mamma?” 

"Kiss Janey,” cooed the little one, and Willy ran 
back to kiss her. Mary looking on wistfully he 
turned to her. "I’ll kiss you, too, Mary,” he said 
magnanimously, "if your face is dirty!” and he gave 
her a loving kiss with his warm little mouth. 

When Mary and Jane went up to their dreary loft 
that night both were crying from cold and hunger. 
All the food they had that day was the bread the 
little boy had given them. To punish them for 
not coming the moment they were called Mrs. 
Johnson said they should have no supper. She had 
forgotten, or may be it would not have mattered, 
that they had had no breakfast. The soft mild day 
was succeeded by a terrible night. One of those 
strange changes, so common in Colorado, where in 
an hour’s time the thermometer falls from fifty 
above to twenty degrees below zero, took place. 
An icy wind came sweeping through the gulch. 
Below, by the roaring fire, the drunken man and 
woman piled the blankets about them for the wind 
thrust itself through the chinks in the cabin and 
froze their very breaths. Up in the loft where 
there was no fire and where the wind let in great 


6o 


DESPERATION GULCH 


blasts of air, the two little children huddled together 
under a few gunny sacks. 

Colder grew the pitiless wind, while the pines 
outside moaned and wailed like human souls in 
agony. 

“Ise so cold! Ise so cold!" cried little Jane; and 
Mary wrapped her closer in their miserable cover- 
ing, shielding her with her own body. 

This is no overdrawn picture. Go down to the 
tenements that lean against each other, hiding the 
sky, in filth}'’ alleys; search the cottages of the bru- 
tal poor who find in drink comfort and oblivion. 
Have these creatures no suffering little ones who 
huddle together in icy garrets and cry from cold and 
hunger? 

The wind died away, but the still cold remained; 
the icy windows shut out the light of day. When 
the first rays of the morning sun found their way 
through the pines Mary raised herself on her arm. 
She felt for Janey; she was sleeping; she wrapped 
the clothes about her and gathered her closer to 
her. 

"It’s most mornin,’" muttered Mary, "she’ll git 
warm then. I’m not cold enny more, nor I don’t 
ache. It must be ’cause I see the lady that was 
kind to me, ’n that Willy; I’ll wash my face ter- 
morrer, ’n he won’t Say it was dirty no more. Tain’t 
gittin’ no warmer — panes is frosted; I can’t move 
my fingers, they’re froze. ’N my feet’s queer, dead 
like, ’n my ears. My, ain’t I sleepy, ’n ef I don’t 


DESPERATION GULCH 


6i 


git up soon ’n build the fire she’ll lick me. My 
head’s buzzin’ like it did when she hit me; wish 
Janey and me could live with that lady. She’d 
never hit me. That boy wa’n’t never hit, ’n his face 
was as clean, ’n his hair all combed. I’ll fix Janey 
up ter-morrer (unselfish to the last)*. She’d look 
butuful all cleaned, ’n then I’ll slick me up. But 
I’d ruther he’d like Janey best, for she’s littler nor 
me, an’ me’s more use ter be hit.” 

So thinking, growing drowsier and drowsier, Mary 
lay down again close to little Jane. Then she fell 
asleep, and dreamed a lady like the one she saw 
yesterday came for her, and took her away, gave her 
soft garments and healed her bruises. They went 
through a beautiful country where there were flow- 
ers and birds, green woods and soft turf. They 
went on and on until they came to a vast plain. 
Far away, as far as the blue line of the horizon, at 
which Mary had looked with wondering, childish 
eyes in Denver, thinking of what la}^ beyond, was 
a golden light, great palaces, towers of gold, and 
churches, and all the air was full of sweet melody. 
The plains were crowded with happy looking people. 

“This is a better country to go to," said Mary in 
her sleep. “I wonder they didn’t ’cross to here, 
stid of Denver”. 

“They did not know, Mary,” answered the lady, 
clasping her hand tightly; “but we have found it, 
we will live here in happiness and love forever and 
forever. ” 


62 


DESPERATION GULCH 


Then Mary ceased to dream, but the sun, high 
now over the pines, flung a red gleam through the 
frosted pane and touched with warm light a little 
frozen face on which the glory of heaven lingered 
in a happy smile. 

Oh, crushed and bruised body! Oh, stunted, dark, 
childish soul! Oh, weary feet that unshod, trav- 
elled over a thorny path! Not all the pomp of 
wealth, the greatness of learning, the grandeur of 
fame, can give to mortals your knowledge now, 
your joy, your place. 

There must be — there is compensation ! The grains 
of gold in the barren sand of that child’s heart are 
weighed and counted by the Great Giver of all! 


CHAPTER V 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 

Mrs. Johnson awoke from a drunken stupor near 
mid-day. She rose on her elbow and looked about 
her. There was no fire, the room was bitterly cold, 
but Mr. Johnson with a vacant and liquorish smile, 
warmed his hands at the stove, and had, with 
thoughtfulness fatal — had there been any fire — placed 
his feet in the oven. Mrs. Johnson looked at him 
with a vinegary smile. 

“You tarnal fool, there ain’t no fire,” she said, 
getting up from the blankets and straightening her 
skirts, making her toilet for the day. “Where’s 
them brats?” 

“Hollered to ’em, no answer,” said Mr. Johnson, 
with some meekness withdrawing from the stove, 
tumbling into the blankets just vacated. 

‘I’ll teach ’em,” shrieked the woman, a purplish 
flush covering her broad face. She looked around 
for a weapon. The only thing handy was a broken 
chair rung; she seized this and went to the ladder; 
she called Mary loudly — no answer; then she rushed 
up the ladder. The loft was terribly cold, into her 
besotted brain a suspicion dawned of what had hap- 
pened. She dropped the stick and went over to the 

63 


64 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


two little figures in a horror-stricken way. She felt 
Mary’s face, it was like ice; she lifted one of her 
hands, it dropped heavily to the floor. Little Jane 
was underneath. She picked her up; the child still 
breathed. Thoroughly frightened she caught Jane 
and climbed down the stairs. 

“Mary’s dead, ’Lish,” she gasped in a hoarse 
whisper. “Oh, if this one should die! Quick, git 
a fire, git me hot water to rub her and blankets! ” 

Elisha sprang up sobered by the news, built a fire 
and heated water, and they brought life into the 
half-frozen body. 

"Is there no hope for t’other?” asked Mr. Johnson 
as Jane opened her eyes, drank eagerly of the hot 
tea they offered her and then sank back in the blank- 
ets. 

"Not a mite; she’s froze stiff," said Mrs. Johnson. 
"’Tain’tno great loss if ’tain’t knowed. We’ve got 
ter bury her ’n them that asks we kin tell she’s gone 
back to Denver." 

“Ground’s awful hard," muttered Elisha, dispir- 
itedly. 

“It needn’t be deep — there’s some old boxes out 
there — fix her up one. Itwunt have to be so big — 
she’s such a skinny thing." 

In the afternoon they buried the poor little body, 
Jane warm and well, ran wildly about calling and 
crying for Mary. 

The two guilty people fancied no one saw them 
bury the box, but Willy Curtis did. He had run 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


^5 


away from home with his luncheon for the “poor 
little things.” He saw Johnson burying a box and 
heard Jane’s frightened crying. He ran home ter- 
rified, the saloon being the nearest, he went in 
thinking his father would be there. His mother had 
told his father about the children, and in the saloon, 
just as Willy ran in breathless with fear and excite- 
ment, Curtis was telling the pitiful story of the 
children’s abuse. The men listened indifferently, 
they disliked Curtis and were shewd enough to sur- 
mise there was little humanity in his nature. They 
knew, too, he had no good will toward the John- 
sons. But when the child ran in white and scared 
and told what he had seen, every man sprang to his 
feet. The room was full, the miners had been idle 
and dull so long that it needed only this child’s 
story to arouse their slumbering passions. 

“’Twon’t be no harm to go see ef t’was the child, ” 
said Brooks, and they echoed the suggestion. They 
crowded out of the door; some ran to tell others, 
some to bring things they might need. Curtis hur- 
ried to his cabin for a coil of rope. His wife, anx- 
ious and miserable, was standing by the door, Willy 
had slipped out of the saloon to tell her what he 
had seen. 

“What are you going to do with the rope?" she 
asked suspiciously, as Curtis reached to get it from 
a peg. 

“None of your business,” he answered roughly. 
“Get out of my way, move now, I’ve no time to 
hear your complaints.” 5D 


66 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


Just then she heard a hoarse, angry murmur. 

“Mamma,” cried Willy. “Here comes crowds of 
men, some of them with shovels and they’re going 
down over the hill.” 

“Let me pass,” cried Curtis fiercely; but his wife 
caught the coil of rope in her slender hands. 

“There is some terrible crime, something wrong 
and cruel under way. You want to join— you have 
an object in it. I will expose you! You shall not 
go. They shall know what you want, you are try- 
ing to get the Johnson’s claim.” 

The furious man, tried beyond endurance, snatched 
the rope, struck her down and rushed out after the 
crowd. Willy, trembling and crying, .clung to his 
mother, as they heard the last sound of the tramp- 
ing feet die away over the hill. 

The lurid sunset of the bitter day had faded away 
behind the mountains; a dark shadow crept down 
the valleys, dense blackness under the pines. A 
deathly silence reigned. From the Johnson’s cabin 
a thin curl of smoke floated over the tree tops and 
the light from the window threw a cheery gleam 
down the path. Johnson and his wife were sitting 
by the stove; both were sober ; the death had fright- 
ened them so that after the burial they sat in silent 
misery, caring neither to drink nor speak. Jane, 
wondering at the strange quiet, the food that had 
been freely given her, crept under the pile of blank- 
ets in the corner and fell asleep. 

Tramp, tramp, down the hill, resounding on the 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


67 


frosty ground, a low murmur growing louder, louder 
— men’s voices — what did it mean? The guilty 
couple tiptoed to the window. In the gray dark- 
ness was a crowd of men, all armed, some carried 
flickering torches of pine, others picks and shovels 
— what could it mean? They looked into each oth- 
er’s faces and saw reflected the same look of ghastly 
terror. Had these men found out the truth? 

Elisha, with a grain of manhood in him, seized 
his revolver, but his wife snatched it away. 

“Fool — ” she cried, in an agony of fright, “there’s 
fifty to one; would you have them tear us to pieces? 
ril speak to ’em.” She opened the door before 
they had asked admittance, and in a voice quaver- 
ing with fear invited them in. 

“There’s plenty of good liker in the cellar, gen- 
tlemen!” she said. 

“Bring it out!” yelled Tom Brooks, and she and 
her quaking husband brought up all their store. 
The crowd drank it in a moment, so fierce was their 
thirst. In the cheer they forgot for a time their 
errand; but Curtis did not. In a lull in the noise 
and laughter he shouted: 

“Where’s Mary MacDonald?” The crowd took 
up the .cry — “Where’s Mary MacDonald? " in hoarse, 
angry yells, like the snarling of wolves. 

Little Jane heard, but with the instinct of an 
animal she crept closer under the blankets and lay 
motionless. 

“She’s gone to Denver, “said Elisha Johnson, his 


68 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


dry lips moving, trying to say other words that 
would not come. 

“He lies!” shouted Brooks. "Search the ground 
’round here. Tie them up first!” 

Begging, praying for mercy the miserable man and 
woman were securely bound and thrown on the 
floor, while the frenzied crowd rushed out to search. 

"Here’s a mound!” yelled a searcher. Upon the 
hillside, under the very tree (the ground was soft 
there) where she and little Jane had often sat to 
warm their poor frozen hands in the sunshine, cling- 
ing close together for warmth, they found a new- 
made grave. Five men with shovels sprang up the 
hill and went to work. The earth flew, while the 
rest held their wavering torches above their heads 
to light the sad scene. 

“Here’s a box!” shouted one of the diggers, and 
soon the wretched coffin was brought to the surface. 
Two men with bowie-knives ripped the frail boards, 
hastily fastened, away from the top, and the child — 
neglected, starved, uncared for when the spark of 
life was in her — was exposed to the gaze of a mul- 
titude who would be murderers for her sake, when 
it could and would do no good, when it would react 
upon them with shame and dishonor, a blot on their 
history and on the history of the Territory. 

One of those men who had been a doctor, lifted 
the little body in his arms. On it was the torn 
calico gown, the bruised arms and legs and that ter- 
rible gash were visible to them all. "There’s an 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


69 


Other on her head,” said the doctor; “and her ankle 
is half dissevered by a cut from the hatchet, that 
woman, that fiend — flung at her, and mortification 
was setting in. — It would have killed her in time. 
God! the agony the child must have borne. There’s 
a deep cut on her head,” he went on, as the men 
came nearer and held their torches over the child. 
“This is horrible. What butchery! What a mar- 
tyr!” 

"An’ look here!” said another, “at that ole caliker 
frock — beried in ’t. I warrant she never had another 
one, an’ thin ’tis as paper.” 

"Look at this!” yelled a man rushing up the hill 
waving something in his hand. “Here’s her bed. 
God help us ef our children should come ter that!” 
He held up three dirty gunny sacks, on one was the 
bloody print of her wounded head. 

“What else do we need — what other proofs?” cried 
another man, fiercely. “Never such cruelty, such 
fiendish brutality under the sun!” 

"Wot did she die of?” said a sad-faced white- 
haired man, coming up to the child taking the lit- 
tle dead hand. “I’ve lost little un’s, but, thank 
God, they died in peace, with good care, ’n soft 
beds, kisses, ’n blessin’, ’stid o’ curses ’n blows!”’ 

The doctor laid the frail form reverently in the 
box. Then he stood up with bared head. 

“As I hope one day to be forgiven, ” he said, sol- 
emnly, “either of those cuts would have killed her 
in time; but the cause of her death was even worse. 


70 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


In reach of help, with fire and comfort and blank- 
ets below, she slowly froze to death in that open 
loft with those gunny sacks for a cover and you men 
who have been caught on these hills in winter time 
and wandered for hours to keep from freezing, tor- 
tured nearly to death by the cold, have not felt half 
the agony that little weak, suffering child felt last 
night while the two fiends were in their comforta- 
ble bed a knowing it!" 

Then the mob rushed down the hill to the cot- 
tage. No power on earth could stop them now. 
They were silent — no more yells or curses — but the 
deep stillness of a unswerving purpose. 

Near Johnson’s claim, not far from the creek, 
was a monster pine — a monarch of the region. Up 
its hoary trunk were hundreds of stubs of rotted 
branches, a man climbed up these like a squirrel 
and out on a great limb. He was a fearless climber 
and swift in his motions. 

"Make it sure, Curtis, " yelled Brooks from below; 
neither of these men went to the grave, they needed 
no terrible sight to inspire them to the deed. Un- 
der the. log cabin was wealth and power. 

The mob hesitated at the door. Furious as they 
were the sight of those two people held them for a 
moment dumb. Elisha, with bloodshot eyes and 
ghastly face glared at them in a silence that was 
the most terrible of tortures. His lips worked — 
his wrinkled hands writhed, all in vain — not one 
sound escaped him. He made no effort to free him- 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


71 


self. He stood patiently waiting, his eyes on them, 
on his wife, on his cabin — a thin old man, with 
scant gray hair falling over a pallid face. Who 
there could ever forget him. Not so the woman. 
Her wild eyes, her white face, her dishevelled hair 
and torn dress were not half so pitiful as that silent 
man. She tugged at the cords that bound her till 
her flesh swelled; she shrieked, and begged, and 
prayed; she worked herself to the door and fell on 
her knees, still shrieking, praying, denying. She 
fell on her face and all bruised and bleeding, stag- 
gered to her feet to plead again. Her shrieks made 
her husband wince once or twice, as he looked at 
her pityingly. 

"Tell them, "said the doctor, and the white-haired 
old man whose children had died in peace stepped 
into the room. 

"Mr. Johnson," he said, with a faint pity he tried 
to conceal, "wot you’ve done is been judged by us 
as only to be settled by death. You and the lady 
has murdered a poor leetle child, and this commun- 
ity, horrerfied and roused by it, is goin’ ter see 
jestice done. She was a innercent leetle creetur, as 
couldn’t purtect herself, which made wot you done 
a crime as black as hell!" 

Then the frenzied woman flung herself at his feet, 
clutched them in her bound hands, yelling in wild, 
incoherent words: 

"We never done it! We treated the child well! 
It is a lie — a lie — a lie!" 


72 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


"Take her off,” entreated the old man in alarm;' 
"rm afeered of the wild creetur. " 

The mob rushed in and dragged the woman out. 
She fought them, uttering horrible screams that 
echoed up the valley, over the hills with an un- 
earthly sound. 

"Gentlemen, could I say a word, jest one? ” asked 
Elisha, meekly following. 

They halted and looked back — a man held some- 
thing over the woman’s mouth, muffling her outcry. 

"Say ahead!" said the doctor, touched by the 
bravery of the little man standing on the threshold 
of his cabin for the last time. 

“Would it make enny difference, gentlemen," he 
said, moistening his parched lips — "ef I was to tell 
you — that she — Mis’ Johnson — my wife was — ” here 
he struggled and moistened his lips again — "was 
goin’ to have a child in three months, which may 
make her distracted like — but might make you deal 
less harsh with her. I don’t ask nuthin’ for me.” 

There was a silence for a moment, then the doc- 
tor said roughly: "It will not. Why should she live, 
and that poor girl die? In her condition she should 
have been kind instead of brutal. The babe of such 
a mother is better dead.” 

At that moment the woman gave a fearful yell 
no stifling could stop, and they hurried her down 
the hill. After he was unbound Elisha went up to 
his wife and held her hand a moment, but the poor 
woman was already mad, her wild eyes did not dis- 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


73 


tinguish him from her murderers. He saw her dragged 
to the tree, lifted on the box and the rope fastened. 
He saw the box knocked away and her shuddering, 
convulsive thrills; then he took his place silently, 
uncomplainingly and died without a murmur, even 
helping them adjust the rope. 

"He died game!" said the Doctor. 

"Gamest I ever see,” said another. 

Avoiding the gloomy cabin, the mob went up the 
hill to the coffin, and four men — it was so light two 
could have carried it — took it over the hill to the 
settlement, where it was left in a deserted house till 
morning. 

The saloon was empty that night, for the men, 
awed at their crime, slunk to their homes. Henry 
Curtis found his wife lying white and weak on her 
death bed and the morning light showed another 
name on the list of murders laid at his door. 

His wife had been a petted daughter, willful but 
always loving. She married him and faithfully 
endured his disgrace and the bitter hardships he 
had brought into her life. Years taught her his 
villainy, his corruption; she was a useless martyr 
and she knew it and loathed him. She clung to her 
child with a love that kept her alive in spite of con- 
sumption’s havoc. The last shame was the heavi- 
est, he, her husband, struck her! She was in a 
strange land, away from home and friends; it was 
hopeless to try to reach the kind old father whom 
she knew would forgive her and take her son, so she 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


74 

sank under this last outrage and gave up the bitter 
struggle. 

Jane lay still a long time after the men were gone. 
She had kept so quiet no one knew she was there, 
no one remembered in the wild uproar and excite- 
ment, there was another child. Then she crept 
timidly out all rosy from the warm blankets, her 
yellow hair rumpled and her big blue eyes shining 
with surprise and fear. She was hardly four years 
old and alone in the lonely cabin in that desolate 
region, but Jane never knew what fear was. She 
toddled to the ladder calling for Mary, wistfully 
and patiently, then she looked around the house. 
She climbed up on a chair but the window was so 
frosty she could not see out. Little as she was she 
had been taught to tend the fire, so with infinite 
difficulty she replenished it. Then, childlike, she 
ventured in the pantry to search for food. She knew 
the bad men had taken her father and mother away 
and was shrewd enough to know no one would mo- 
lest her. She found half a loaf of corn bread, with 
the cunning of an animal she crawled again under 
the blankets and fell asleep with a half-eaten piece 
in her little dirty hand. 

The morning light crept down the valley and the 
sun looked over the trees. The Johnsons, man and 
woman, swung to and fro under the gnarled old 
pine. The rough cabin, lonely and desolate, seemed 
to look silent reproach from its two small windows 
down the path the old prospector of ’56 had gone 


WITHOUT JUDGE OR JURY 


75 


in hope, returning in heart-broken disappointment. 
A cold bleak morning, the earth white with frost. 
Early as the dawn an evil-eyed, starved coyote slunk 
down the frozen creek and curiously watched the 
bodies dangling from the tree, then fled up the val- 
ley to the mountains with a horrid yell. 

Flapping, wheeling back in fear, forward with 
trepidation, uttering hoarse cries, alone vulture cir- 
cled in the air near and nearer those ghastly fig- 
ures; then with warning screech echoing that of 
the coyote, it too flew up the valley. 


CHAPTER VI 


REST AT LAST 

Not long after the ill-omened prey-seekers had fled 
up the valley two men on horseback rode down the 
hillside over the rough trail and halted before the 
cabin. 

T hardly thought you’d come this morning, Cur- 
tis,” said one. 

"Why should a dead woman hinder me? "said the 
other, with a sneer. “To be a good villain — which 
is, I must say, a paradox — one must have neither 
feelings nor fear. To get rich mostly requires a 
good villain when the odds are against one.” 

The two men went into the cabin. Their object 
was not plunder, indeed, there was nothing to steal. 
Brooks went out into the kitchen where he found 
some boards, the surface of which he whittled 
smooth. Curtis filled the stove and blew the smol- 
dering ashes. When the fire started he looked about 
the room. He fancied he saw the heap of blankets 
in the corner move, then to his surprise and disgust 
little jane crawled out and looked at him with big, 
fearless eyes, holding tight in one dirty little hand 
the piece of corn bread. 

“Who are you?” said Curtis, taken aback. 

76 


REST AT LAST 


77 


"’Ittlejane, ’’she answered looking with a child’s 
curiosity at the horses outside the open door. 

"It’s the Johnson’s young one," said Brooks. "I 
forgot it last night." 

"You always forget ’em," uttered Curtis with a 
scowl. 

Then Jane saw the bodies on the pine’s branches. 
"Der’s muver ’n faver — " she screamed — "on the 
’free. You put e’m dar, you devil!" she cried turn- 
ing to Curtis, using the epithet her mother usually 
applied to her, which she felt meant the very acme 
of wickedness. The evil smile came on Curtis’ 
mouth, as he struck the little upturned, horrified 
face with his iron-handled riding whip. 

"I’d like to kill it,” he said under his breath. 
Brooks made a significant gesture with his hands 
about his neck. s 

"I know it," said Curtis gloomily, "but we must 
get rid of the brat. Isn’t there a place you can 
take her to? The trail there leads to Denver. They 
couldn’t see you at the settlement, you could ride 
on till you got near there, hide along the creek and 
then dispose of it, kill it, if you like.” 

"I don’t want no more murders," said Brooks; 
"me doin’ the dirty work and you bossin’ the job. 
There’s a woman in Denver wot takes young ones 
— there’s gettin’ to be a likely lot of ’em, too, left 
’round in baskets to be called for — " he added, with 
a leer. "She’s a regular she tiger — knowed her 
East some years ago. She got hitched to a parish 


78 


REST AT LAST 


feller wot believes in faith, an* them two ’s got a 
place in Denver they calls Paradise on Earth, or 
some sich fandango, I guess ’tis paradise; but they 
don’t bother with no burial permits nor doctors. 
They has faith the young ones will, git well, an’ 
cures ’em by prayin, ’ an’ buries ’em handy-like in 
the back yard. They don’t arsk no questions. 
Twenty dollars an’ a quit-claim, that’s all.” 

“That’s our place," said Curtis. “Here’s the 
money. Pm confounded hard up, too; but nothing 
venture, nothing have." 

Brooks went up to the heap of blankets and 
dragged the sobbing child out, 

“I want my Mary — my Mary! ” screamed Jane. 

“We’ll go find her," said Brooks, catching at the 
idea. “See, Pll wrop ye in this shawl, an’ we’ll gg 
down to Denver on the horsey. So, now." 

“You’d make a good child’s nurse," sneered Cur- 
tis, with his evil smile, while Jane stared at him 
with angry eyes where the tears still lingered. 

“I don’t want the brat catawaulin’ all the way an’ 
rousin’ everybody!" snarled Brooks mounting his 
horse. Curtis handed him the child and he rode 
off to Denver. 

After he was gone Curtis heated a poker red-hot 
and burned on the smooth boards: 

“We claim this land including all of Johnson’s 
claim, the hill, the creek, and this cabin. 

Henry Curtis, 
Thomas Brooks." 


REST AT LAST 


79 


He wrote this on four boards, and going to the 
four corners of the land dug holes fixing the boards 
firmly in the sod. Then he locked the cabin door, 
pocketed the key and rode up over the hill, looking 
back as he gained the summit with the air of a pro- 
prietor. A savage scowl came over his face when 
his glance fell on the bodies and his evil smile lin- 
gered till he reached his cabin where his dead wife 
lay, and where his child in an agony of grief, 
crouched beside the bed, not comforted by the rough 
kind women who gathered in the bedroom. 

The next day Brooks came back from Denver 
with the unwelcome news that the people of the bor- 
ough were highly indignant at the lynching of the 
Johnsons, and steps would be taken to punish the 
participants in the affair to the extent of the law. 
A meeting was held in Rounds’ saloon, where it 
was voted to send the body of Mary MacDon'^ld to 
Denver to be publicly exhibited. The citizens of 
Denver should see for themselves the extent of the 
child’s injuries and vindicate the citizens of Perry’s 
Grant, as the settlement was called. Several min- 
ers were deputed to bury the Johnson’s bodies some- 
where in Desperation Gulch, before the meeting ad- 
journed. 

The following morning seven or eight men buried 
the Johnsons on the top of one of the pine-clad 
hills remote from the mining operations, and piled 
rocks on the mounds. These same men became 
aware of Cilrtis and Brooks’ sign-boards, but after 


8o 


REST AT LAST 


some anger and cursing, unanimously agreed “them 
two was durned smart." Meanwhile Curtis, Brooks 
and the doctor drove down to Denver in a cart, in 
which was little Mary’s body, and in a second rude 
box the body of Mrs. Curtis. There was no grave- 
yard in Perry’s Grant. 

“How did Mac take the death of his child?" asked 
the doctor as they neared the town. 

“It didn’t break his heart?" said Brooks curtly. 
“He went to sayin’ po’try ’bout he never loved a 
dear gazelle or some critter, then he went gin’ got 
drunk. " 

In town Curtis drove to Sims’ undertaking shop 
— an adobe hut — and left the bodies, ordering as 
good a coffin as could be made for his wife’s re- 
mains; then he sallied out to spread the news that 
Mary MacDonald’s body was at Sims’ shop, and 
would be exhibited to the gaze of Denver’s inhabi- 
tants who might desire to see the extent of her in- 
juries. It was early afternoon when the body was 
brought to Denver, but by nightfall almost every 
inhabitant had been to gaze at the “show." There 
were parties of gentlemen well fortified with ardent 
spirits, who came and went; mothers of families 
with their broods; saloon loafers; hard women who 
came away with tears in their bold eyes and curses 
on their painted lips; boys slinking in; curious lit- 
tle girls who looked and looked, and, fascinated by 
the horror, came to look again. For hours the 
throng came and went; it was only after dark when 
they ceased. 


REST AT LAST 


8l 


Driven from post to pillar in her short, sad exis- 
tence, a target for blows and curses, tortured, suffer- 
ing, bruised and beaten *in her life, poor little Mary 
had no rest in death. 

Torn from her first resting place to whet the fury 
of a mob, left unwatched in a ruined hut when the 
flush of passion was past, carted over rough roads to 
satisfy the vicious curiosity of another rabble, gazed 
at by rude men and worse women, children and 
drunkards! Oh the shame of it all! The disgrace, 
the dishonor! 

There was some 'talk in Denver in the midst of 
the excitement over the body’s arrival that the 
Johnsons should be also brought down, exhibited 
and hung again, but this was overruled by the wiser 
and soberer heads, 

During the height of the excitement, when the 
crowd blocked the narrow lane by Sims’ shop, a 
handsome carriage drawn by two big, black horses, 
driven by an old negro, went past unaware of the 
uproar till it was too late. In the carriage was a 
lady dressdd in deep mourning, with a crape veil 
over her face; beside her was a plainly dressed 
woman with bold, handsome eyes, red cheeks and 
strong, coarse features. In a few rapid words she 
told the cause of the crowd, then she opened the 
carriage door. 

“Pll walk home. Miss Virginia,” she said. 'T 
must see the child.” 

"How can you. Rose?” exclaimed the other. But 

6D 


82 


REST AT LAST 


the carriage door slammed and Sam, the driver, 
made his way through the. crowd. 

After a long time Rose McCord came out of the 
shop and pushed her way through the throng. 

"What shall I do,” she muttered to herself. "I 
can’t go to Mac’s; he’ll lay the brat’s death to me. 
I advised it. Yet I must know who was instru- 
mental in that lynching and where the child went. 
Who will tell me?” 

She thought of Brooks, she had seen him from 
the carriage window, she would come down that 
night and make him tell her all. 

A few minutes after eight o’clock, when it was 
decently, dark in the streets, Mac left the saloon 
where he had been a prominent figure, a bereaved 
parent, the recipient of much consolatory liquor, 
and took his way to Sims’. The shop was locked 
and in no pleasant humor Sims, a little surly old 
man, opened the door and inquired "Who’s there?” 

“A much wronged man,” said Mac with a whim- 
per that was more a hiccough. 

Sims showed him the child, placing a lamp on 
the rough boards where she lay. 

“Same kaliker she hed when she went away, “said 
Mac with much feeling; "and that old splintery 
box for a coffin. Looks natural and smiling?" 

“You take it easy,” growled Sims,' 

“Still water runs deep, boss," said Mac; “but I 
know she’s happy and peaceful nowand this country 
ain’t no place to bring up a child. I always felt a 
responsibility and a care which wore on me.” 


REST AT LAST 


83 


**Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade, 

Death came with friendly care, 

The opening bud to heaven conveyed, 

And bade it blossom there.’” 

“You get out," cried Sims, angrily, “you hain^t 
enny more feelin’ then a stone, quotin^ po’try on 
that poor little thing, ef truth was knowed some on 
them marks an’ bruises on her was old ones made 
by you. Git!" 

Mac felt himself flung out into the night, the 
door locked behind him. He accepted this philo- 
sophically, making his way to the nearest saloon. 

It was a strange thing the community should be 
so wrought up over this child’s murder when it 
looked calmly on the double tragedy at Highlands 
four years before; but public sympathy for or against 
murder is hard to fathom. The wave of feeling 
sending one man to the gallows for a crime may 
exonerate the next for the same offense. The pity 
for one man murdered may turn to a conviction 
that death was merited by another who was no 
worse. 

Rose McCord came back to the village at nine 
o’clock, going softly through the streets, slinking 
in the shadow of the houses and avoiding lighted 
windows. She stopped at a queer little frame 
house, standing some distance from the village 
high up on a sort of mound. She knocked twice 
in a peculiar way, after some bustle inside some 
one unlocked the door, and a female voice called 
out: “Is that you,. Rose?” 


84 


REST AT LAST 


"Yes, it’s me," said Rose, pushing in locking the 
door behind her. 

There was only one room in the cottage, and this 
was a kitchen and bedroom combined. There was 
a stove, a pile of dirty dishes on the table, a disor- 
derly bed, and a trunk half filled with clothing 
flung in helter-skelter. Near the stove was a pretty 
girl with a mass of pale blonde hair, big blue eyes, 
a complexion of roses and cream, a saucy upturned 
nose, full, red lips, delicate hands and pretty, bare 
feet. She was dressed in an old blue flannel wrap- 
per half concealing her plump^ round figure, and 
was munching nuts from a pile in her lap. On the 
table mingling with the debris of a supper was a 
box of jewelry, some handsome, but most tawdry 
and imitation. 

"I didn’t see you at the saloon," said Rose, clear- 
ing a chair of a pair of dirty white kid slippers and 
a blue silk skirt covered with spangles. 

"No, nor you won’t again," answered Sal McGin- 
nis, the blonde girl. "The best dancer west of the 
Missouri," she styled herself. 

"Jack hasn’t come back?" asked Rose in some 
surprise. 

"Not he, bad luck to him," laughed Sal biting 
a nut with her firm, white teeth. "He meant to 
desert me here, the villain, — but, honor bright. 
Rose, I’m goin’ to turn over a new leaf. I’m goin’ 
to be housekeeper for a feller up to Desperation 
Gulch, Got one little boy, real eddicated feller. 


REST AT LAST _ 85 

These saloons isn’t no place for a lady like me." 

"What’s his name?" asked Rose, irrelevantly. 

"Oh, Curtis — Boston feller — handsum, too, but 
looks like a greaser, one of them Mexicans that 
alius has a knife in their boots." 

"Maybe you wouldn’t give a note to a man in a 
saloon for me?" asked Rose thoughtfully. 

"’Deed I would,” said -Sal, flinging her nuts on 
the floor hunting for a gown in the heterogeneous 
mass in the trunk. "Didn’t you take care of me 
when I was sick? I’d run my legs off for you." 

In a marvelously short time she was off with the 
note. After a half hour, during which time Rose 
walked restlessly up and down the disorderly room, 
Tom Brooks came up to the cottage. 

"Sal stopped to say good-by to Frenchy; she’s 
goin’ with us in the mornin’,” he said as he warmed 
his hands by the stove. 

"If I hadn’t sent for you,” said Rose sharply, fix- 
ing her glowing eyes on his face, "you’d never come. 
You’d gone back without looking me up." 

"Yer hain’t so ’greeable that it’s a pleasure to 
see yer, enny way" muttered Brooks sullenly. 

"You know why I ain’ t, " she said, pitifully. "Ever 
since I was a girl of sixteen you’ve kept me this 
way; you got my love; if you knowed I couldn’t 
outlive it. Wimmin of my nature never does. I 
could have married rich men out here but for you; 
others thinks I’m han’some and tells me so, but I’d 
ruther one kind word from you than all their fine 


86 


REST AT LAST 


talk. What if you are poor, Tom? I could help 
you; I’d work my fingers to the bone for you." 

"That is silly talk,” he said rudely; "you know I 
like yer, that I’ll marry yer when I’m rich. It 
tain’t so fur off as you think," he finished with a 
knowing leer. 

"I try to believe you, " she said humbly. "Now 
sit down and tell me about the lynching, everything, 
and who was the leader in it." 

He told her the horrible story and did not note 
when he told his share that her very lips grew pale 
as she staggered to a chair. 

"And the child, what of her? Where is she?" 
she said when he finished. 

"Don’t know, ” muttered Brooks uneasily, turning 
his eyes away from meeting her searching gaze. 

"You are lying,” she cried fiercely, "the child is 
alive; you’ve hid it somewhere." 

"Curtis knows where it is,” he said shortly. 

"Fool!" cried Rose, "couldn’t you have, stolen 
the child and hid it and had him in your power? 
Whatever he did you’d had that to keep him in 
check. You’ve always told me that you had no 
love for him, that you hated his insolent ways, yet 
you play into his hand'^every time.” 

Brooks sprang to his feet with a curse at his 
folly and walked to the window. Rose followed him, 

‘Tell me where the child is!” she pleaded, cling- 
ing to his arm. "I’ll never tell. I must know. I 
will know. You see how much wiser I am than 


REST AT LAST 87 

you. Curtis could never make a fool of me. Tom, 
tell me.” 

She was crying bitterly now. He pushed her 
away and seized his hat. 

‘T don’t know, I tell yer,” he said savagely. 

She blocked the doorway a moment. ‘T know 
your lies,” she said calmly. “You do know where 
the child is, and it is alive. I warn you, if it dies 
you shall be exposed. I will tell the truth, and 
Johnson’s heirs shall have the land you and Curtis 
have stolen. Treat me as a friend, Tom, and I am 
a friend; treat me as an enemy, and I am a bitter 
one. ” 

“You’re a mad fool!" said the man roughly, push- 
ing by her and hurrying away. 

“I might have told him,” she muttered, follow- 
ing a few moments after, “but I can’t. He would 
turn from me with loathing, he would hate and 
shun me. How low, how false I am for him, and 
how little he cares; but I can’t, I won’t give up the 
hope he will change, and love me as he used to.” 

After Mrs. Curtis’ funeral the next day MacDon- 
ald drove back to his residence above the grocery 
store and halted at the stairs. They were rickety 
and steep, this was- ample reason why he should 
not mount them, so he called “Julia” in stentorian 
tones. After some delay a window was pushed up 
and the unclassic features of Mrs. Mullen appeared 
framed in the sash. 

“What d’ye want?” she cried shrilly. 


88 


rest at last 


"Circumstances makes it a dooty you owes to so- 
ciety, Juliet, to attire your beauteous self in decent 
mourning garments, get on this mourning coach 
with me and ride out to the cemetery, where I’m 
going to perform a lather’s dooty.” 

"Dooty be durned” said Julia, as she slammed 
down the window. 

"Curt and uncourteous, ” muttered Mac, chirrup- 
ing to his sorry steed, "ril go alone. 

And no man saw that funeral, 

And no man knew it e’er.” 

He drove up to Sims’ shop and went in. Sims 
was away, but Mary’s body still lay on the boards. 
Mac lifted it, laid it in the coffin, smoothing the 
thin, fair hair and arranging the old calico frock. 
Then he nailed down the boards and carried the 
box out to the wagon. No one offered to help him, 
though a few of the men who had been vociferous 
in their condemnation of the Johnsons the day be- 
fore were loitering along the street. 

"I don’t know,” said Mac, gathering up the reins 
again, "whether Mary has had services or not; I 
guess it don’t make much difference, it’s getting 
late, and that graveyard’s all of four miles." 

He drove off moralizing as he went, and poor 
little Mary with neither preacher nor prayers, mourn- 
ers or tears, was hurried to the graveyard where, 
thank God, the dreary body found rest at last. 

Mac dug her a grave beside the neat iron fence 
inclosing the grave of the young man killed by 


REST AT LAST 


89 


Dwight Wallace, and he placed the rude box so 
that it lay at the feet of the buried man. He 
smoothed the earth over the mound, then leaning 
one foot upon it lighted his pipe. 

“They’ll be company for one another and both 
murdered,” he said with some solemnity. Then he 
looked out on the picture before him. 

For a mile or two an undulating plain lay before 
the graveyard — brown and gray, covered with dead 
buffalo grass and cactus; further on were a few 
scattered houses, then a cluster of houses, and a 
church; while below this the river ran rippling and 
frothing over the breaking ice. A line of trees 
fringed either bank, up the stream was the broad 
sand/ bed of Cherry Creek where a thin stream of 
water oozed through the sand, appearing and v^an- 
ishing till it joined the river. Beyond the Platte 
were hills and a few houses; far beyond them lay 
rolling plains away to the low foothills; then bleak 
and bare, with snowy crests and scattered snow 
lying in white ridges on the scarred and seamed 
surfaces veiled now in bluish vapor, were the Rocky 
Mountains — the eternal walls of God. Pike’s 
Peak, Gray’s and Long’s, with hoary heads, cloud- 
kissed, caught the last glow of the setting sun, that, 
red and awful, flamed the clouds behind them with 
the glow of a world on fire. 

Awed by the splendor of those silent walls, the 
wretched sot — a man degraded and degrading — 
MacDonald made his way homeward never dream 


go REST AT LAST 

ing that his little martyred child lay with scarred, 
folded hands over her suffering breast in that rough 
coffin at the feet of her brother— for they had one 
father — lay at his feet as humbly and shrinkingly as 
she would have crept had she met the brave, young 
soldier in her pathetic, loveless life. 


CHAPTER VII. 


PARADISE ON EARTH 

Mrs. Matthew Cowan was a respectable Irish lady 
of religious inclination. She dwelt in an Ohio town 
not far from Rocky Creek where the Wallace fam- 
ily lived for so many years. There had been a Mr. 
Cowan of convivial habits but reckless expenditure ; 
he died, however, of a fall from a window in an 
intoxicated moment, and rumor was quick to hint 
perhaps Mrs. Cowan added to the momentum of his 
fall by a gentle, wifely push. Fortunately for the 
worthy widow he fell before a legacy came to her. 
The death of a rich aunt in England left her with 
some $ 20 , 000 , besides clearing the farm of the nu- 
merous mortgages with which her husband had bur- 
dened it; indeed for the past few years almost the 
only harvest raised on the Cowan farm had been 
loans. Freed from husbandly annoyance, Mrs. 
Cowan took on an air of cheerful melancholy and' 
intense piety. She was foremost in all religious 
meetings, and was regularly converted at each revi- 
val, occupying a front seat with those who wished 
to be prayed for. She was a short, thin woman, 
with little black eyes, weazened neck, scanty black 
hair, and a much-wrinkled face. She wore black 

91 


92 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


alpacas of seedy aspect, but in the fourth year of 
her widowhood descended to the vanity of a bright 
green bow at her collar. 

About this time a cadaverous looking man, with 
large pale eyes, auburn side-whiskers and hair, came 
to the town — Reedville — and established a home or 
a "Paradise on Earth," he called it, and this name 
painted on a board was nailed to the picket fence 
enclosing the land and weather-worn house he had 
hired. A tired-looking woman — his wife — attended 
to the material wants of the household, while he 
attended to the spiritual. There being no poor- 
house in the vicinity, the town officers boarded their 
paupers in this "Paradise." 

The Rev. Mr. Green became highly popular in 
the community, though all the ladies, at least, ac- 
knowledged his wife was queer. Finally, poor, 
tired Mrs. Green died, then stories came out of 
abuse and neglect. Mr. Green endeavored to save 
expenses by carrying on the "Paradise" with pau- 
per labor. He never troubled the parish for burial 
permits, but he did for coffins; some charitable vis- 
itors, coming one day, found vermin-covered crea- 
tures tied in the garret, without food or clothing, 
little children famished for food, and starved dead 
babies in rude boxes ready for burial— while some 
half-witted women told a horrible story of crime 
and abuse. 

The result was that Mr. Green was driven out of 
Paradise, the name by the way and the sign-board 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


93 


Still on the rickety fence clung to the place for 
years as an ironical reproach. 

Mrs. Cowan boldly took the Rev. Jonas’ part, to 
further prove her belief in his goodness, married 
him one day, and a few weeks later the worthy pair 
left for Denver in an elegant train then setting out. 
In Denver they established a second “Paradise," in 
which by the payment of $20 children were taken 
and cared for and no questions asked. Articles of 
adoption had to be given with each child, and all 
claims on it relinquished. 

Mr. and Mrs. Green’s great idea and principle 
was to cure by faith; also, it may be added to nour- 
ish and clothe by faith, for the sufferers in this par- 
adise seldom had anything else. 

“We trusts and prays, "the Rev. Green would ex- 
plain, with an inward sucking of his lower lip, as 
if it were a most toothsome morsel. “If a child is 
ill, we pray; we have faith it will recover, if it is 
so ordained. If a child is hungry we teach it to 
have faith it will be fed, and our dear brothers and 
sisters in this far Western settlement has been re- 
sponsive to our calls upon them; so we has been 
satisfied our faith has not been throwed away, nor 
cast as pearls afore swine. We will be cared for 
as ’Ligah was by ravens." 

The home had been established four years, when 
a horseman rode up one night, knocked at the rude 
door of the long rambling adobe house, the “Para- 
dise," and presented at the same time a $20 bill 


94 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


and a four-year-old girl. Of course the child was 
accepted. She said her name was Jane, and she 
wanted Mary. She was called Jane, soundly beaten 
for wanting anything and lacking faith. The poor 
children early learned in the Home it did not need 
much faith as far as beatings were concerned; they 
were an understood thing. 

Jane lived through the abuse and privations of 
the Home. She was tough as a pine knot, wiry 
and hardy, and careless of blows or scoldings. She 
was a silent child, never crying, no matter what 
was done to her. She would look at her tormentors 
with her big solemn eyes, and shut her red lips 
firmly. So she lived, and others died. She saw 
little babies die, gasping and wailing for food; she 
saw miserable wrecks their friends had placed there 
for care and shelter, go mad in baffled rage, shriek- 
ing with want and disease; she saw little children 
like herself beaten to insensibility, starved till they 
cried for bread. Jane felt for all as she grew older, 
but the hardships of her babyhood made her able 
to bear. There was one reason though, why she 
could endure better — she stole! In the dead of 
night she crept from her bed, took the key of the 
pantry from the nail in the Rev. Jonas/ own bed- 
room, and gathered enough to last her for days. 
She hid it away feasting in secret like a young can- 
nibal. She was preternaturally sharp. 

"Ef I tell the rest of ^em or give ’em enny, they’ll 
blow on me,” she said to herself, and kept her se- 
cret. 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


95 


The home was some distance from the town, and 
few ever came out to it, so the Rev. Jonas was not 
troubled with inquirers. He and his wife got along 
well, and were mutually satisfied with each other; 
both felt a subdued ecstasy in maltreating the help- 
less beings by whom they were surrounded. 

“I never see the beat how things goes outer that 
pantry,” snarled Mrs. Green one afternoon, flounc- 
ing into the kitchen from the pantry, with a rolling 
board covered with raw doughnuts in her hand. A 
poor old man was frying doughnuts at the fire. 
(God help him! he sold his farm in the East, gave 
his son and his son’s wife the money, and went to 
the new country with them, this was the return). 
“How many doughnuts is there in that kittle?” 
(The doughnuts were for the Greenes table.) 

“There’s six,” quavered the old man — “all you 
give me to fry!” 

“I give you seven,” cried the hag, furiously; 
“seven! There’s six. You ate one! “I’ll call the 
Riverend — stealin’ in this house, you miserable old 
thief !” 

“’Fore heaven, marm,” quaked the old man, hold- 
ing his trembling hands before his face, “I never 
done it. I never eat one. Hungry as I be, I never 
stole yit.” 

“You lie,” she shrieked — “Jonas, Jonas!” 

A child, who had been standing on a box washing 
dishes in slimy, greasy water with on old stocking 
foot, wiped the water off her arms, and jumped 
down from the box. 


96 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


“He never eated it, Mis’ Green,” the child said 
boldly; "I done it.” 

This was not true; the old man, driven by hunger 
had devoured the doughnut, the child, looking back 
saw him smacking his lips over the last bite. She 
liked him and she pitied him. It seemed perfectly 
natural to her that he should steal; she was not 
above that sort of thing herself. She took the 
blame on her shoulders; the Greens could not hurt 
her as much as they could the poor old man — the 
trembling old creature whose tears ran down his 
cheeks after her avowal. 

“You did? You, Jane? You imp of Satan!" 
yelled Mrs. Green, running to the pantry door and 
bringing out a rawhide, the cruelest of all weapons. 
Jane knew the whip, and had felt it too often to like 
it. Frequently, in her predatory excursions to the 
pantry, she had desired to make away with it, but 
was always at a loss for an expedient. She retreated 
to the box, and ran one dirty arm into the dish water. 

“Come here, or Pll skin yer alive!” said Mrs. 
Green, flourishing the whip. 

T won’t,” said Jane, stoutly. "Yer can’t kill 
me; yer ain’t goin’ ter let me lay on that old table 
in the shed. I ain,’t no flabby baby, or scared 
young’un ; yer can’ t bury me in the yard, them says, " 
with a wave of her disengaged hand in the direc- 
tion of the room where the poor inmates were 
locked up — “that I’s a imp of saten ’n can’t be 
hurt. I hain’ t ’ leered of ye. I’m not hungry; they 
is; I’m weller ’n them, too." 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


97 


"Oh, you are!” sneered Mrs. Green, — 'you are! 
We’il see!" She advanced toward the child with 
the whip, but Jane reached out from the dishwater 
a long, sharp carving knife, and flourished it. 

"Come nigher, an’ Pll jab ye!” she said deci- 
sively, Mrs. Green, much alarmed, fled for Jonas, 
and the old man fell back against the wall overcome 
with his delight. Just at that exciting moment the 
Rev. Jonas came bustling along the narrow entry 
that ran the whole length of the house. 

“What’s all this noise?” he asked testily. Mrs. 
Green explained, but to her surprise he pinched 
her arm with viciousness and force. 

“Never mind; never mind, I say,” he muttered 
in a low voice. “Company, fool, company!” 

At this magical word Mrs. Green’s violence abat- 
ed; a grim smile adorned her features, as she began 
to smooth down her rolled-up sleeves. 

“Lady in the parlor,” said Jonas, unctuously; 
“come in kerrige, waitin’ to the door.’* 

"What’s she want?’’ whispered Mrs. Green; “not 
to see the home? Them critturs ain’t fixed up- 
dirty as rot, and old Jim tied up in the corner. 
Lord knows how them babies is; I hain’t seen ’em 
sence mornin’; an’ them two ijuts takin’ ker o’ 
’em will be horrid sights now.” 

“She don’t wanter see the home," said Jonas, re- 
assuringly; "she wants to see a young one brought 
here by a sand-haired man four years ago. It’s that 
Jane." 

7D 


98 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


Jane at a safe distance was watching them with 
big, curious eyes. 

“Can’t yer palm one of t’other on her, an’ fool 
her? We may make suthin’. on’t,” said the Mistress 
of Paradise on Earth, with cupidity on every fea- 
ture. 

“I thought on’t," answered Jonas; “but its no use. 
She knows the age of the brat to a minit— used to 
know the parents." 

‘G’ long an’ git yer apirn on,” said Mrs. Green 
to the culprit she would willingly have strangled. 

“Then come to the parlor,” commanded Jonas 
with an unholy glare, shaking his bony fist at her 
in token of what she might get if she were not dis- 
creet. 

Jane put on a clean gingham pinafore used only 
on company days, and followed the worthy couple. 
The parlor was distinguished from the rest of the 
rooms (except Jonas’ private* apartment) by having 
a board floor — the rest had only earth. There were 
four or five chairs of unpainted wood in the parlor, 
a table and a large Bible on a box which was cov- 
ered with a green shawl, the property of a female 
inmate who died in fits, owing, the rest thought, to 
having cold water thrown on her when she was re- 
fractory and being kept tied up, wet and shivering, 
for hours. In the parlor was a fireplace, and hang- 
ing over this a life-like portrait of the Reverend 
Jonas. “Done in oil," his wife always explained, 
“’n him to the very life. ” The Rev. Jonas was rep- 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


99 


resented with a benevolent smile^ his hair brushed 
straight up from his forehead, standing in a kind 
of halo, while in his hand he held a large volume, 
presumably a holy book from the absorbed expres- 
sion of his turned up eyes. 

In the room, standing by the window, looking 
idly out on the barren yard that stretched to an 
adobe wall some fiv.e feet high, beyond which was 
the road where Sam was driving the fine, black 
horses up and down, was a large, tall woman with 
handsome dark eyes and red cheeks. She was 
dressed in a rich silk with fine velvet cape and 
bonnet, her hands covered with kid gloves ending 
in gold bracelets. She appeared something wonder- 
ful and beautiful to the child. Rose McCord re- 
cognized Jane at a glance. A look of triumph 
passed over her face; then she bit her lip angrily. 
Why had she not thought of this place before in 
all the years she had been trying to find the child? 

“Miss Wallace sent down a basket of wine and 
some jellies for your sick," she said curtly to the 
obsequious Jonas and his wife; “also this ^lo bill. 
Please get the things from the carriage." 

There was no alternative but for them to leave 
her alone with the child. She looked at Jane with 
a strange glance of loathing and hate. Jane looked 
back at her in undisguised delight, fixing her eyes 
on the bracelets. She wondered what they were. 
She would have liked to put one on her arm, just 
to see how it would look. 


ICO 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


“What’s your name?" said Rose, haughtily. 

“Jane." 

“Jane what?" 

“Dimno," answered Jane indifferently, her mind 
taken up with the bracelets. 

“Do they beat you here?" 

“Lots," said Jane frankly; “sometimes with the 
broom, mostwise with a whip, sometimes what 
comes handiest. I git over it though, can’t hurt 
me much. I’m a imp of Satan." 

“Can you read?" asked Rose, her eyes glowing 
with a strange malicious ligh'- 

“Wot’s read?” said Jane. 

Still that ugly light in Rose McCord’s eyes. Was 
she pleased with the ignorance of the poor little 
orphan, glad that this sad, degraded childhood was 
like, though far worse, than her own. 

“Do you work hard?" said Rose quickly, for the 
Greens were hurrying in with the boxes of wine 
and jelly. 

“Washes dishes; water’s mostly cold; has to go 
way to the creek for it; scrubs this ’ere floor too,” 
said Jane with some pride; “but its allfired splin- 
tery; gets into my hands. Cooks some, ’n washes 
— though critter’s clothes ain’t washed of’n, ’cept 
their compan}’ ones.” 

Before Rose could be further informed, Jonas and 
his wife entered in a breathless state. 

I am going now," said Rose, loftily. “This is 
the child I knew of. You will treat her -well no 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


lOI 


matter what she does; never dare to strike her. 
You have heard of the Johnsons who were hung 
near here four years ago — a little excitement and 
an exposure of your Home would give you as bad a 
late. I have a fair idea how this place is managed, 
but it is none of my affair. See that this child is 
free from your abuse.” 

"You talk purty big fur Miss Wallace’s hired 
girl, in yer silks and satins, which I’ve no doubt 
is the Missus^ old ’uns, ” snapped Mrs. Green with 
some spite, 

"Let the idler go, Lillian!” said the Rev. Jonas 
meekly. "The painted Jezebel became food for 
dogs!" 

"You see fit to insult me," said Rose coolly, 
though her eyes were flaming. "The negro lied to 
you. I am Miss Wallace’s companion and confi- 
dant. Bah, I lower myself talking to you. Remem- 
ber this, however; I shall come here to look after 
that child and I will know how she is, whether you 
have disobeyed me or not. I warn you, I mean what 
I say when I tell you I will have you served as the 
Johnsons were.” 

With that Rose swept out of the house glower- 
ing fiercely at Sam as she got in the carriage; for 
between the two was a deadly feud of many years 
standing. 

As they drove through the town, they noticed 
knots of men gathered together at corners and in 
the street, women lingering, listening, too. 


102 


PARADISE ON EARTH 


"What’s de row now?" asked Sam of a crony as 
he drove on. Rose leaned forward listening eagerly. 

"Big find," said the man addressed coming up to 
the carriage. "Curtis and Brooks has struck it 
rich in Desperation Gulch. They’ve found a pocket 
of silver nigh where Johnson’s old cabin stood. 
They’ve took out $50,000 in a half day. There’s 
millions more where it come from!" 

"Golly! they’re lucky," said Sam, whipping up 
his horses. 

Rose McCord heard, and fell back against the 
cushion with a bitter moan. 

"God!" she muttered; "It might be mine! It 
is mine — if I dared — if I could — but I am tied hand 
and foot — hand and foot; and he will get it all! 
What shall I do? Must I let it go on? He take 
the wealth there that is mine? Oh, if he knew, 
as he would then, he would hate me, loathe me, 
turn from me with scorn. He would not take my 
money, he would not love me ever in the future; 
anything but his loathing! " 

All her pride, her self-command was gone. She 
clenched her hands in an agony of grief, weeping 
wildly — tears that gave her no relief but maddened 
her the more, while the haunting question echoed 
and re-echoed through her whirling brain, to meet 
no answer, no comfort, no hope! 

“What shall I do? What shall I do?" 


CHAPTER VIII 


A HIDDEN POCKET 

Early in the morning of the 28th of August, 1872, 
two men were seen descending a barren hill cov- 
ered by the blackened stumps of pine trees. Be- 
low them was a valley where a sandy creek-bed lay 
blistering in the sun. A few yards from it on the 
hillside was the door of a tunnel going into the 
hill. It was easy to recognize Desperation Gulch 
and Johnson’s cabin. There was no sound, this 
still, hot morning but the cracking of the twigs and 
the steps breaking them. The men came steadily 
on, one carrying a pick, the other a shovel. They 
stopped at the end of the mine and looked down 
the valley. 

"It will be hot to-day,” said one, more to break 
the silence than because he cared whether it was or 
not. 

"Twon’t matter to us in the tomb there,” said the 
other, sullenly. 

"You’re gloomy. Brooks; men can’t be rich in a 
day, ’’said the first speaker; but he looked at Brooks 
pityingly; his gaunt face, his long, unkempt hair 
and beard, his haggard eyes and ragged clothes told 
too well the story of want and failure. 

103 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


104 

"Yer ain’t none too cheerful yerself, Curtis,” mut- 
tered Brooks, working away at the lock on the door. 
“You’ve, grown gray an’ thin — aged ten year in 
four, ef that's enny comfort to yer." 

“I don’t care,” Curtis answered, carelessly; "I’m 
a young man yet; fortune would give me youth 
enough. One thing’s lucky though; but for our 
miserable hut Perry’s Grant would be a stack of 
ruined houses, with empty rooms and staring win- 
dows like the eye-sockets of skulls. The whole re- 
gion around is deserted, no one will dispute our 
wealth with us. 

Brooks laughed harshly, swinging open the door. 

"Dispute our claim to earth and rocks and a hole 
that’s cost us four years’ labor. What would they 
want it for but a grave?” 

"There’s something there beside earth, " said Cur- 
tis, an almost prophetic light on his face. "There’s 
porphyry, there’s limestone; and where they are 
there’s silver. - We must find it — we will find it. 
Let’s go to work; we waste daylight.” 

He seized a lamp and went into the dark hole. 

"Nothin’ but work and disappointment,” muttered 
Brooks gloomily, following him, "but I’ll stick to 
it long’s he will. It would be my luck to go and 
him strike it, and me lose four years’ work.” 

An hour after they had gone into the mine two 
other people came down the mountain. A frail 
boy of twelve, carrying a tin pail, and a pretty 
blonde woman with a shovel over her shoulder. 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


105 


She wore a costume hardly suitable to her sex, and 
seemed to have appropriated Curtis’ clothing. 
However, the rough blue flannel shirt was becom- 
ing, and, though thin and pale, it was easy to re- 
cognize in her Sal McGinnis, “the best jig dancer 
west of the Missouri." 

Her pretty hands grasped the shovel in a deter- 
mined way; she had the same anxious look as the 
two men who were now digging in the earth like 
rats. 

"I wish we could stay here ’n rest, Sal," said the 
boy wistfully; "it’s so hot ’n I’m so tired." 

"But we can’t, dear," said Sal kindly; “it’s work 
or bust. Set the pail in the shade; they’ll wring 
our necks if the water gits warm, an’ none nigher 
than a mile. Come on." 

She seized the child’s unwilling hand and ran 
into the mine, where she soon went to work like 
the rest. She and Willy loaded the little cart with 
earth. Brooks hauled it out, while Curtis worked 
at walls of the cave, with quick nervous strokes of 
his pick. The}^ worked in silence for hours. All 
of a sudden Curtis called out sharply: 

"Look out!” 

They sprang back to the door. With a thunder- 
ing crash a great mass of earth and rock fell from 
the side of the cave to the floor. 

"Light the torches, Brooks,” cried Curtis in a 
hoarse, unnatural voice. Then he seized a torch, 
rushing over the heap of earth like a maniac. 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


io6 


"He ain’t crazy, is he?" said Sal, dropping her 
shovel. 

"What is it, papa??" cried Willy. "What is in 
that black hole?” 

"Black hole!" yelled Cutris, transfigured with 
joy, his features working. His eyes full of tears, 
“black hole? It’s there! there! there! Ha, ha, 
ha, we beat them— we hung on — we’re rich! rich! 
Oh, I shall go mad — speak some of you, that I’ll 
know I’m not dreaming!" 

“Ye’re awake, Henry," said Sal soothingly; "but 
I don’t see nuthin’ there only a heap of black, 
sandy stuff. " 

Brooks followed her up the pile of earth while 
Willy’s pale little face peered under her arm as 
she held the torch above her head. 

“That sand, that black sand’s it, it, it!" yelled 
Curtis, diving up handfuls of the sand, kissing and 
clenching it, and gathering more when it fell, "we’ve 
found a pocket — that’s silver, fools — see it shine; 
iron’s turned it, but it’s all silver. There’s thou- 
sands of tons of it, and there’s thousands of dollars 
to the ton!" 

They knelt down and gathered the dark stuff, 
black as soot, in their hands; here and there a few 
bright grains shone through the black — the silver 
that had not been turned by the baser rnineral. 

“Black hole!" went on Curtis, still crazy with 
the stroke of fortune: “I felt it was here. Don’t 
ask me how. I can’t tell you. When I planned 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


107 


for gold in the creek, grains of silver would come 
at the bottom .of the pan, always more silver in 
mine than in ’tother. I felt it was a sign. I wasn’t 
to look for gold. I was to seek this silver. It 
might have washed down the hills, it might have 
worked its way through the earth; who knows? 
Who’s ever told where the gold and silver in the 
creeks come from? Who? Where are your men 
of science? Can they answer? They’d be billion- 
aires if they could. Where are your ^mining engi- 
neers? What do they know? What can they tell 
you about it? I used to look at that cabin till my 
eyeballs burned. It mocked me, it jibed at me; 
for it knew that I hungered for what it held secret. 
There are stories of men who have lived over hid- 
den treasure all their days; look at Johnson — his 
was no story; he was alive — a man like ourselves. 
He lived over this for years; he walked over it, 
slept over it, ate over it, creeping down to that 
cursed creek till he got too weak to crawl, and 
we’re reaping the benefit.” 

He stopped then and sunk down exhausted. Sal 
brought him water, which he drank in long gulps, 
like a man parhced with thirst. 

‘T’m on fire,” he gasped. 'T’ll go out to the air. 
Help me, Sal, I will not lose it all. I won’t lose 
it. I’ll not give way; I’m only faint.” 

He was better in the air, and the whole party 
set out for their lonely cabin. They walked with 
buoyant, hopeful steps and light hearts. In their 
rags, their hunger, they were millionaires. 


io8 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


Through the deserted gulch a hot wind came 
from tlie plains, rustling the branches of the pines 
on the hills, and as ever they seemed to be whis- 
pering mysteries. Perhaps they wondered why old 
Johnson of ’56 should have failed to find the wealth 
that came to evil men, while he who fought all the 
terrors of solitude and want should die poor, wretch- 
ed, blind. A strange feature of the miner’s life, 
the luck of some, the misfortune of others. 

How calm that valley was, how quiet; yet, the 
agony and heart break it had seen, the misery, the 
murders,the treachery, and the crime! Like a bat- 
tle-field, where the green grass, the shady trees, and 
the sweet birds were just the same after the fight 
as before, the sky as blue the sun as warm, the 
moon as bright, and the gentle breeze murmurs 
low, as if there had been no carnage and slaughter 
a few short days gone by; no turf wet with life- 
blood of the bravest in the land. There are cy- 
clones that tear nature’s heart, and there are cy- 
clones that rend the lives of human beings. 

Twenty miles from Desperation Gulch was Coyote 
Gulch — a deep, long ravine — where all the old min- 
ers had flocked from Perry’s Grant, besides many 
new ones from all over the countr}^ At the head 
of Coyote Gulch a black little smelter vomited 
greenish smoke from a tall chimney all day; here 
the sandy soot of Johnson’s, or rather Curtis’ and 
Brooks’ claim, was turned into great shining bars 
of silver, which showed Curtis that he had not half 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


log 


estimated his wealth; for the "sand" assayed $i,ooo 
to the ton. 

On the evening of the 28th of August, Curtis 
mounted his bony horse and rode over to Coyote 
Gulch in hot haste to spread his news, and came 
back laden with parcels. Food had been a scarcity 
in Perry’s Grant for months, but he was a million- 
aire now. He brought Sal — for he was always gal- 
lant to the fair sex, excepting his dead wife — a 
green silk gown, a store-keeper at the Gulch had 
detained from an erring fair one for groceries un- 
paid. Sal put it on with a shriek of laughter. She 
had swept the room, set the table, and was only 
waiting for the parcels to cook supper. 

"There’s an antelope steak, Sal, tea, coffee, flour, 
whiskey, a jack-rabbit, and a jar of jam — all I could 
bring. Cook them all ; I mean to eat as I never 
ate before, ” said Curtis, flinging down the bundles. 

Sal was an expert cook, she prepared a fine meal ; 
they all sat down to it, enjoying beside mugs of 
dark-colored liquid highly exhilarating. Willy was 
made to take his share and drink to the "pocket,” 
but he shortly fell asleep. Brooks, in a state of 
delight intense as his past moods had been gloomy, 
filled his glass so often the table rose up to meet 
him; he considered it discreet to fall under, as it 
was determined to rise, and put no obstacles in its 
way. 

Sal put down her whiskey untasted. She was 
restless and uneasy, she had talked and laughed 


no 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


with a feverish gayety ; now even that had vanished. 
She rose and flung open the door. It was starlight, 
a melancholy wind soughing through the pines 
around the little clearing. 

“I feel as if I’d stifle," she said abruptly. 

"You’re not sick,” said Curtis impetuously. "You 
mustn’t be now. Just think how I’ve striven and 
toiled in this cursed place. Oh, I spent money 
once right royally, but never hereafter. I’ve learned 
what money is, what money means, what life is 
without it; I shall turn over a new page in my life. 

I will be rich and respected now. I will sell the 
mine to the first good bidder, then good-by to a 
miner’s life and the life of a vagabond." 

"I’m heart-sick," sobbed Sal. 

"Why?" 

"Because,” she went on tremulously, "I’ve got ter 
go back, ter go down; what’s there left for me!” 

"Who said you’d got to go back?" said Curtis 
earnestly. "You’ll go with me, Sal, as my wife — 
my boy’s mother. You have stuck to me all these 
years, these hard years; sold your clothes, your jew- 
elry; parted with all you had to keep us from starv- 
ing. You have saved your portion of food for me; 
starved yourself for me. I don’t forget it, nor how 
patiently you worked, digging in the tunnel, always 
with faith in me, and cheering me when I was sad- 
dest. I’ve been a bad man. I never cared for any 
one; but now I do feel love for you. Part from 
you, Sal, now that fortune has come? Never! Let 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


III 


the world say what it will, we will live it down!” 

"Won’t yer be ^shamed of me?” she muttered. 

"Never, Sal. You are beautiful. The world for- 
gives ignorance in beauty; you shall learn all that 
books can teach to be a lady.” 

"Pll try ter be wot yer’d like, Henry,” she said 
piteously kneeling at his side, looking into his face, 
with her beautiful eyes; "but don’t yer back out 
when I’ve taught myself to believe it’s all goin’ ter 
happen. ” 

He smiled on her — not the ugly smile but a mar- 
velously winning one. 

"I’ll keep my faith with you, Sal,” he said gently, 
"as I hope to live to enjoy that silver in the hill- 
side. I swear by my fortune and that is my faith 
— my life! ” 

A week later a syndicate of wealthy Englishmen 
came up to Desperation Gulch. They were in 
Denver and heard of the strike. They examined 
the mine, and offered the owners $2,000,000 for the 
property, hardly supposing their offer would be 
taken, for the winner of such a prize generally keeps 
hoping always for more, till sometimes the riches 
melt away and he goes back to prospecting again, 
poor, as ever. 

"I never want to see this place again,” said Cur- 
tis, as he got into the stage that ran between Coy 
ote Gulch and Denver. 

"There’s a bad mem’ry with it,” said Brooks, 
looking back uncomfortably, as if he could see be- 


II2 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


hind him two motionless figures hanging from an 
old pine tree. “I sometimes misdoubt ef any 
good’ll come of the money arfer all.” 

“There’s whore you’re wrong,” observed Curtis 
calmly. “Did you ever hear of ill-gotten gains 
making any trouble in real life? The man who 
robs the widow and orphan is a church-goer and 
dies respected. You must learn sense if you want 
to enjoy life. Romance is pretty and instructive 
in books but never in real life. How many rich 
men have you ever heard of who made their money 
by fair and honest means? How many of the rich 
mine owners in this State to-day could bear an in- 
vestigation as to the justness of their ownership? 
Rarely the first man who stakes a claim gets the 
fruit of his labor. Often times he is in a poor- 
house, or a sot in a bar-room, or a dead man with 
a bullet in his heart, while the man who ruined 
him or killed him takes the mine. Pve no sympa- 
thy with preaching or humbug.” 

“May be you’re right,” said Brooks hopefully. 

At Denver the old partners said farewell. 

“There is a stage to-night; we’re going east, ” said 
Curtis. “Good-by. Good luck to you!” 

With these few words the men parted. Sal and 
Willy waved Brooks good-by as the stage rattled 
out on the plains, that was all. It seemed like a 
dream. 

Brooks went up to “Paradise on Earth” that even- 
ing. There was something he must see to, that 


A HIDDEN POCKET 


r- 


113 


Curtis with all his acuteness had forgotten*. The 
Rev. Jonas Green answered his knock. Brooks had 
pulled his coat about his ears, his hat down over 
his eyes and stood aside so that the flickering lamp 
Jonas held would not shine on his face. 

“What yer want this time o’night? ’ asked Jonas. 

“Is there a child here, blue-eyed, named Jane, 
eight years old?” said Brooks. 

“Three days ago Mopted by a man an’ his wife; 
don’t know their names, nor where they went, nor 
where they come from. Ennythin’ more?” 

“No,” said Brooks; “your civilness will never be 
your death,” and with that he strode away. 

He kept hidden that night, but early in the morn- 
ing purchased a horse and set out for the East. 
He waved his hat mockingly at the old Wallace 
house as he saw it for the last time, when he rode 
up a hill, to the stage road. 

“I’ve outwitted yer. Miss Rose,” he chuckled. 
“Spite and fury can’t hurt me now. Better fortune 
to yer next time! ” 


8D 


CHAPTER IX 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 

On the afternoon of that eventful day in Desper- 
ation Gulch, an old couple came riding into Den- 
ver on two sorry looking mules bearing the marks 
of a long journey. One of these mules which had 
a white coat, now gray with dust, was ridden by a 
tall, thin woman with tanned, wrinkled face, bright 
blue eyes, and a mass of disordered gray hair under 
a man’s hat. She was dressed in a green delaine 
dress, spotted with round yellow suns, and had 
strapped on her back a soldier’s knapsack. On 
the other mule was a short, stoutish man, with lit- 
tle, gray eyes; bronzed face, untidy gray beard and 
long hair. He wore buckskin clothes and was 
loaded down with bundles strapped to him, while 
a large buckskin pouch hung on the side of the 
mule. 

“Now, Alexander McClure, I hope it’s yerself as 
is satisfied,” said the woman, with an attempt at 
anger which her laughing eyes and the wrinkles 
about her mouth belied. “Shure, now, it’s a nar- 
row escape we had dodgin’ them rid divils and 
cornin’ nigh perishin’ o’ hunger and thirst in the 
gulch. Indade, O’ill shtay here now; wild horses 
lU 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


II5 

nor mules’ll not drag me away from this town, an’ 
a foine place it is. You kin go gallavantin’ if 
you’re a moind, but never a Biddy’ll go wid you; 
so put that in your pipe and shmoke it." 

"Weel, Biddy," said the old man, with a comical 
air of resignation. "I only went to Californy to 
oblege a leddy who wanted to try mining; I’ve 
traveled here Ho oblege the same leddy who knew 
I’d a claim in Coyote Gulch and wanted to try her 
luck there, I’d follow this leddy wherever she goes." 

"Alexander McClure, didn’t the Irish people settle 
that rock heap of Scotland, an’ give the foinest 
bluid to the counthry? Phat ’ud the English be 
widout the Irish, an’ America indade! Faith ’t is 
to your credit that you do as I tould you, why 
should we shtay to one place? The wurld’s a big 
place, we’ve to see all we kin, an’ now ’t isn’t 
many as is gone to New Zealan’ an’ Australia, an’ 
San Francisco, an’ back agin to the San’wich Islands 
an’ hinto Chiny, where there’s the divil’s own lives, 
a quar set — thin to England, taking a run to Ire- 
land an’ to Dublin, afoiner city hi niver did see in 
our travels — thin back agin to Australia, striking 
it rich, an bein’ robbed ont’ an’ takin’ ship for 
Frisco an’ thin here to' Denver, right in the shadder 
of thim mountains a smoiling on us full of goold, 
indade, to be had for the askin’." 

"You owre gi’en to talking, Biddy, it’s the Irish 
in ye,” said Alexander thoughtfully, "but you are 
never gi’en to ranting and ye have the brain of a 


ii6 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


man, and (with a sly twinkle) a Scotsman, too. 
The crowd there at the tavern maun see sumat to 
steer at; weel, let’em gl9wer if itwilldo’em good.” 

"It’s the fureign look we has,” smiled Biddy com- 
placently; "mebbenow there’s some there as knows 
you. You was here in ’56.” 

"Not mony of them’s left in this world noo,” said 
McClure sorrowfully. "Mony of them sleeps in the 
plains and on the hill there. They was na’ built 
for storms like me, they let the warld fret them and 
worrit where I took it easy an’ went on my journey 
wi’ song and laughter. Laughter keeps us alive, 
Biddy. It’s the best boon of the good Lard’s, not 
gi’en to the beests neither but jest to man.” 

"Do you put people up in this tavirn, now?” 
called Biddy, as the mules slowly ambled along 
the dusty road to the low rambling wooden build- 
ing with its two stories and piazza, where, above, 
the ladies sat in the shade and looked down and 
below, the men made themselves comfortable with 
their feet on the railing. 

"Ef they pays,” said a fat, red-faced man, Bowen, 
ex-saloon keeper, advancing to the new-conTers. 

"Shure, you’re an imperdent one,” said Biddy, 
throwing herself off her mule with an agile spring. 
"Did ye think we was lowerin’ ourselves by viS' 
itin’ ye? Thank the good Lord you’ve got the 
German face, and ould Ireland hasn’t got to blush 
for ye. See that,” she went on, shaking a fat purse 
at him, "see that wallet. There’s good California 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


II7 

goold in’t, better money thin you’ll iver see agin till 
you sell your ould carcase to the surgeon. Now,- 
feedthim animals well, son,” she said to a small 
boy, who came around the building with the air of 
a judge of horse flesh, and took the mules’ bridles. 
“Phat a little thing it is, ladin’ thim grate brutes. 
It’s lucky they’re koind now, or he’d get his death, 
an’ his father a lookin’ on, too.” 

After a bountiful meal Alexander went out to 
purchase supplies and a wagon for his trip to Coy- 
ote Gulch; Mrs. McClure, unearthing a sunbonnet 
from her knapsack, (it was a wonder it held so 
much, and a mystery where all the things came 
from) sallied out in pursuit of an object she had set 
her heart on. She went down to the lower porch, 
but found it deserted by all save one man. She 
went up to him. He was half asleep, and had an 
intoxicated look. 

"Kin you tell me, man, where I’ll find a child, 
now — an orphan to adopt?” 

"Find a child?” said MacDonald. "What you 
want — one for? ” 

"Company,” said Mrs. McClure, disposed to be 
conciliatory, for the gentleman seemed to be in a 
contradictory humor. 

"Company. Irish, ain’t you?” muttered Mac ab- 
sently. 

"Indade I am, an’ proud uv it?” 

"WvMl, well, good soul, don’t be ashamed of your 
country. 


ii8 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


‘Lives there a man with soul so dead 
Who never to himself has said, 

This is my own, my native land? 

"Good people the Irish, but impetuuus, passion- 
ate, high-spirited." 

"Well, where’ll I find a child?” said Mrs. Mc- 
Clure, irritably. 

"Indeed, Madame, I don’t know, unless at that 
long, low building, on the hill, the mud house. If 
it’s a dead child— which, by the way you did not 
tell me, though you are too respectable certainly, 
despite your miscellaneous appearance, to be a fe- 
male ghoul — " 

"Female ghoul, indade!" panted Mrs. McClure. 
"Ghoul indade! Now phat under the hivens is 
that?” 

"You would, if you were a ghoul,” said Mac, 

mildly, "be more apt to find what you want at that 

house, which is poetically named ‘Paradise on 

Earth,’ and which is run by faith. Reverend Jonas 

Green and Mrs. Vixen Green. You may find a live 

child there, ‘Paradise on Earth,’ sweetly poetic — ” 

‘Must I leave thee, Paradise? Thus leave 

Thee, native soil, these happy w'alks and shades?”’ 

"Well, if you can’t bate thedivil round the stump 
I niver see it done, an’ small thanks to ye for your 
direction." Said Mrs. McClure setting out with a 
masculine stride over the hills. She was somewhat 
out of breath and much out of temper when she 
reached the adobe wall, and she muttered to herself 
over and over again: 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


II9 

"Famale ghoul, indade an’ a dead child, as if I’d 
not lost foive beautiful childrun, all of thim with 
the masles, which there little skins bein’ so tanned 
by the wind an’ the sun, shure not a masle ’ud 
come out, but turned the other way to their inside, 
an’ carried thim off.” 

She opened the gate of the mud wall, and to her 
surprise saw her husband knocking at the weather- 
stained door of the house. 

‘‘Phat are ye doin’ here, Alexander McClure, 
now?” said Biddy, halting in astonishment. 

“I tried to surprise ye by bringing a bairn for ye, 
Biddy,” replied McClure humbly. 

“Faith now you’re a thoughtful man, nixt to the 
Irish about as foine as kin be found. Two heads 
is better nor wan — we’ll both take a hand in it.” 

Mr. McCJure having rung the bell, Mrs. McClure 
tried a second time, the result was satisfactory and 
startling; the door opened outward suddenly, and 
a man and woman stood confronting them. The 
man held a candle over his head trying to see their 
faces. 

“They’re a murderin’ lot,” said Biddy under her 
breath; but undaunted as ever she stepped forward, 
and said with an effort to be polite. 

“Is this a place where there is orphans to give 
away?” 

“Wot business is it of your’n?” said the manv/ith 
the lamp. “You don’t want none, poor as you air!” 
The woman with him giggled spitefully. 


120 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


"I’d not have the ginerosity if I was rich to 
wanter git a poor little innercint outer your clutches, 
which bein’ not well to do, but always comfortable, 
I do wanter; so if there’s a innercint in there you’d 
like to git a good home for, an’ no trouble arter- 
wards by sendin’ back, I’m that pusson.” 

"We take great pains with our inmates," said 
the Rev. Jonas, unbending a little. "We don’t 
want em’ to fall inter evil, shiftless ways, reflect- 
ing on our management; we b’lieve in moderit 
kerrection. Ef we was ter give a orphan ter yer 
how’d we know but it’ud fall inter evil ways — him 
there, for instance, might now be one ter think 
kerrection not needful,” went on Jonas, looking 
slyly at Alexander, who, from the moment he had 
set his honest Scotch eyes on Green’s face, glow- 
ered at him with no sign of either interest or belief. 

"Oh him!” said Biddy, with vast contempt; "him. 
indade! It’s lucky there’s a hed to this fam’ly, sir, 
an’ that bed’s me. Now you intrest me, for I’ve 
me own notions of bringin’ up childers — not too 
savare, but not to let ’em git the upper hand on ye. 
Solomon says — an’ a wise ould cratur he was — 
‘Spare the rod an’ spile the child.’ A little batin’ 
now an’ thin makes good lads an’ foine wimmin.” 

Here Biddy paused for breath, while her worthy 
husband shrunk back looking at her in horror. 

Be aisy now," she whispered, when Jonas and 
his wife had gone in and half closed the door to 
confer with each other. "See me play the villins; 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


I2I 


they’d niver let us have a child if they thought it 
would have good treatment. Did ye see the ugly 
in their faces?” 

Just then the Rev. Jonas with a chilly attempt 
at civility, asked them in. Biddy accepted, but 
insisted on McClure’s remaining outside, as she was 
the head of the family. After a few moments, dur- 
ing which Biddy stared at the Rev. Jonas’ portrait 
with a look of sardonic admiration, the Greens re- 
turned, driving before them the orphan they had to* 
give away. A thin little girl, with great, hollow 
blue eyes, and close- cropped yellow hair — a dirty 
child in ragged pinafore — for the “company” one 
was not needed on this occasion. 

‘That is its name?” said Biddy sourly, “an’ is 
that the stoutest one ye have?” 

“It’s the only one we’d let go,” said Jonas im- 
pressively. “We do it because she is inordinately 
(lingering with a kind of enjoyment on the large 
word that by some mysterious agency had come to 
him at that moment) inordinately wicious. ” 

“Wicious, indeed!” added Mrs. Green. “No one’s 
hardly safe with her.” 

“She looks it,” said Biddy, scowling. “Batin’ ’ll 
take it outer her. Phat’s your name? Shure I 
asked yer afore; are ye deaf?” 

"Jane,” answered the child, sullenly, lifting her 
violet eyes to the stranger’s face. There was no 
hope there. 

“Jane,” said the Rev. Jonas, solemnly, “you air 


122 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


about to go forth. Your career here has bin one of 
fiendish ingratitood an’ wice, lyin’ an’ stealin’. 
That woman wants a orphen, me an’ Mis’ Green 
looks about us for one. We lights on you. Why? 
The arnsur is, you have bin called an’ found want- 
in’, you have bin corruptin’ old an’ young, an’ once 
took a carvin’ knife to you kind mistress. Wot 
you’ll take to this woman" — (Biddy’s clothes were 
shabby and cheap, hence Mr. Green felt it his duty 
•to prune all flourishes from his address)” — I don’t 
know, it mebbe pitchforks, axes, or table knives, 
if they is sharp enough, but seldom is for a wep- 
pen. Take wot you will, it can’t matter to us, for 
when we shuts them doors on yer they never open 
to yer agin. Paradise on earth is shet to ye for- 
ever, an’ yet you still look sulky.” 

'Not a tear,” added Mrs. Green; "hardened young 
brute!” 

"Indade she is,” cried Biddy, enthusiastically. 
"Shure one ’ud think she’d wape her eyes out 
leavin’ this butiful place an’ you koind folks. She’ll 
not find sich keer with me, an’ the work’ll be hard 
you may belave. ” 

"Not too hard,” said Jonas meaningly; "you’ve 
heered of the Johnsons here?” 

Biddy’s face flushed, an angry light flamed in her 
eyes; but she restrained herself and grinned know- 
ingly. 

Oi’ll kape insoide the law. Now Jane, we’ll 
go." 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


123 


"Wait a moment," said Jonas mildly; "we would 
like your name and where you are going." 

"That’s soon answered, "answered Biddy smoothly. 
"His’n is Tim Rafferty mine’s Ann Rafferty, we’re 
goin’ to Kansas to a farm we own." 

"That’s satisfactory,” said Jonas, making an en- 
try in a little book he carried in his pocket; "sat- 
isfactory, indeed. You kin go now an' it would be 
well ef you want ter keep the child, ter keep this 
ter yourself." 

"Can’t ye say good-by, ye hathan?” said Biddy, 
grabbing Jane’s arm - up in a hasty way, as if she 
were in great hurry. 

"Done wanter! Hate ’em," screamed Jane; "I 
hate yer too. I stole all the time from the pantry, 
crep in an’ got the key outer their room. Them 
thought it wuz rats." 

Jonas reached out a wrathful, lean arm to strike 
the impudent little creature, but Biddy with a dex- 
terous movement swung Jane outside the door and 
closed it after her. At the gate McClure was wait- 
ing. 

"Here’s the orphan," whispered Biddy, as if Jane 
were a bundle of stolen goods, "an’ all the lies I’ve 
tould thim two ould divils! Here’s her bony hand, 
Alax, take it in your’n; shure she’s a mere wisp of 
a gurl — now the other paddie, sis — here we be; 
now one, two, three — for a run over the hills to 
town an’ clean outer the clutches of thim two." 

They set out on a wild run, Jane keeping up with 


124 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


the two old travelers; but she was sadly confused, 
for the woman she thought was going to beat and 
abuse her actually stooped down before starting to 
give her a motherly kiss. Near the town McClure 
dashed ahead— for Biddy had told the story of her 
call as they ran and he went to get the team ready. 

That night a white covered wagon drawn by two 
weary old mules cheated out of a night^s rest left 
Denver and set out over the mountains to Coyote 
Gulch, where McClure had a claim, and where he 
hoped to find a fortune. 

McClure’s claim was at the head of the gulch and 
he sunk a shaft above it on the hill. He worked 
there for six years while his wife kept a little store 
for the miners, did their washing and took some of 
them to board. Little Jane, loving both of her 
adopted parents, helped them all she could, and 
was happy the day long. One day McClure came 
down the gulch with a hurried step; he went 
straight to his log cabin and into the kitchen, 
where his wife was frying antelope steak over a 
blazing fire. It was a hot July day, and the per- 
spiration was running down her red face, Jane was 
sitting on, the window-sill knitting a stocking for 
him, great pride she took in it, too. He walked 
slowly in, then deliberately kicked the frying-pan 
off the stove to the floor. Jane looked up in terror, 
but Biddy replaced the pan, swept the meat into 
the wood-box, fetched him a chair, and stood sur- 
veying him, her arms akimbo. 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


125 


“You ainU a drinkin’ man, McClure; tain^t that 
now. It^s a strike!’’ 

“You’ve guessed it," said McClure faintly; "Tve 
struck the mither lode. God bless her, and a sik 
mithers, we’re reech, Biddy!" 

The gulch rejoiced at McClure’s good luck. The 
tidings spread, and the whole country around was 
riddled with shafts; but no one ever had such for- 
tune again, and the “Bonny Jean" mine, became 
known throughout the West. Jane was Jane no 
longer; McClure had christened her Jean, and sel- 
dom a night passed in the log cabin but he took 
her on his knee, and sang to her, the sweet poem 
of Burns. ' 

“Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw 
I dearly love the west, 

For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo’e best. 

There wild woods grow, and rivers row. 

And mony a hill between; 

But day and night my fancy’s flight 
Is ever with my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers 
' I see her sweet and fair; 

I hear her in the tuneful birds, 

I hear her charm the air; 

There’s not a bonnie flower that springs, 

By fountain, shaw or green, 

There’s not a bonnie bird that sings 
But minds me o’ my Jean.” 

He played the bagpipe, too, and Jean could dance 
the Highland fling right prettily, Biddy joined 
many a time when she was in the mood, but was 
better at an Irish jig. 

McClure was a wonderfully gifted man, for he 


126 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


was without education save that he had acquired 
himself. He had traveled the world over, catching 
many languages; he was a fair artist, and some of 
his sketches taken in his rambles showed ability, 
and he was a natural musician, self-taught. Biddy 
loved and appreciated him, and he her; her ready 
wit, her unfailing good nature and courage had 
saved his neck many a time. But in Jean he found 
his greatest happiness. She could sing like a bird, 
dance like a fairy; she would amuse him for hours 
at a time with her bright fancies; she always sat 
beside him while he worked in the mine, and he 
called her the luck. The gold was the glint of her 
yellow hair. 

Jean had grown beautiful. Her face was plump 
and rosy, her violet eyes bright with happiness; 
rarely lovely under long, dark lashes. Her hair, 
yellow as gold, grew in soft curls catching every 
gleam of sunlight. McClure often wondered who 
her parents were. He looked at her dainty hands 
and little feet; they were the signs of good blood. 
Her ancestors had not toiled in the field. Her fin- 
ger-nails were pointed and pink-tinted, and her skin, 
save where the sun had darkened it a shade or two, 
was white as snow. 

When the “Bonny Jean" proved a bonanza, Bid- 
dy took Jean East. In a quiet coast city in Massa- 
chusetts was an old maid with whom Biddy had 
lived a few years when she came, a raw Irish girl, 
in the steerage to America. This lady had a school 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


127 


then, but age and failing health had forced her to 
give it up. She lived alone, poor and lonely, in a 
big white house on an elm-shaded street, and some- 
times, sad to relate, the fine old gentlewoman had 
neither money nor food in her house. It was in one 
of the seasons of privations that Biddy and Jean 
came. Biddy explained that she and the child 
wanted to be educated and instructed, so they might 
make a good appearance with their new-found 
wealth. 

Miss Franklin, a sweet-mannered, white-haired 
lady, welcomed them gladly; and, when in two 
years McClure came for his wife, she begged for 
Jean to remain. The child, loving her new home 
and studies, was left behind, while McClure and 
his wife went back to bonnie Scotland and to Ire- 
land. They stayed two years abroad, and after they 
returned, went to Miss Franklin’s, where they found 
their adopted daughter grown into a beautiful wo- 
man, as graceful and refined as if there never had 
been a grimy little creature called Jane. McClure 
went wild over her; he was never tired of quoting; 

“There’s not a bonnie flower that springs 
By mountain, shaw or green; 

There’s not a bonnie bird that sings 
But minds me of my Jean.” 

One night she astonished him by sitting down to 
the piano in Miss Franklin’s quaint, old-time parlor, 
and singing the words. He asked Miss Franklin 
many questions, all of which that fine old lady 
answered truthfully and happily. Miss Jean knew 


128 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


more than any young lady she had ever taught, she 
was a lady in mind and heart, pure as the snow. 
She knew and cared to know no one but her teacher 
and the teachers who came to give her lessons. 
Miss Franklin added with righteous rejoicing. 
"Miss Jean had never even spoken to a young man 
in her life in Weymouth." 

McClure was delighted; he sometimes feared 
Jeail’s early life might have made her les^ decorous 
in mind and manners; but he was mistaken. For 
all she ever showed of the old wild days they might 
never have happened. Perhaps it was because the 
chance of an education came so late that Jean 
loved books and worked with such zeal; or it may 
have been because Miss Franklin was an ideal lady 
to her, and far different from any she had ever seen 
that Jean loved and imitated her. However it was, 
Miss Franklin was right; there was not a stately 
lily in her garden so fair, so sweet as Jean in the 
first flush of her young womanhood. She saw the 
world only through Miss Franklin’s eyes; she had 
no knowledge of its vice and evil. The coarse, 
vile people, the horrors of her childhood, she had 
outgrown, and there were no errors of her own in 
her girlhood to mar her purity. 

McClure and his wife went back to Denver; they 
loved the place for its glorious climate, its sunny 
skies, and the silent grandeur of the mountains — a 
nobler prospect than any other city can furnish in 
a free land among a free people. McClure bought 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


129 


land in Highland, across the Platte. Denver and 
West Denver had grown, but Highland stayed 
almost as in the first years of its settlement. Here 
McClure built a veritable palace. He chose the 
highest ground he could; he had an unbroken view 
of miles of mountains, he looked down on the 
bridged river, the creek, and the city beyond. On 
one side lay the plains, the infinite plains grander 
in their vastness than the sublimity of the moun- 
tains — as monotonous as the sea — as great, as ter- 
rible! On the other side of his palace was the 
quaint house Judge Wallace had built, where his 
sad daughter, with her old servants and her maid, 
lived a lonely, dreary life. The old house was cov- 
ered with vines; they twined around the pillars, 
clung to the windows and doors, and mounted to 
the rooL Close to the house fine cottonwoods 
grew and hid its old-time architecture from curious 
eyes. It was a house wherein the princess might 
have slept till the prince came to awaken her. It 
was so quiet, so shady, it seemed as if the trees 
and vines conspired to hide the sad victim of mis- 
fortune and the sin of others. 

Virginia Wallace, grown old and white-haired in 
the six years —watched the building of the great 
house, watched the pink stone and the gray, artisti- 
cally mingled; saw it rise from foundation to arched 
roof — watched queer windows, cornices, porticoes, 
all adding to the beauty and grace of the whole; 
saw the chimneys grow brick by brick; saw the 
9D 


130 


JANE FINDS FRIENDS 


Stable, then the horses; saw the barren ground laid 
out as a green lawn, and big trees torn from thei»* 
forest homes brought to the lawn to live again in 
a brighter world. She saw from her shaded win- 
dow great drays coming and going, and the fine 
furnishings arriving; she grew to like the lively 
little gray-haired man who was anywhere and every- 
where and when nothing else was to be done sat 
down and sketched a corner or bit of his palace. 
She knew he was the owner — Lucky McClure — and 
the dignified lady in black silk, who seemed so de- 
voted to him, was his wife. She half regretted, 
half liked the new life in her quiet neighborhood; 
then she would sink back idly in her chair: 

“Why should I think of them or their coming!” 
she would say to herself. “It will never matter to 
me!” 


CHAPTER X 


MISS franklin’s home 

“ ‘There wild woods grow and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between, 

But day and night my fancy’s flight 
Is ever with my Jean.’ ” 

So wrote old McClure to Jean, adding with lov- 
ing words that she must come to her new home in 
September. It would be completed then and he 
could not spare her any longer; kind Miss Franklin 
must come with her 

Jean read the letter, sitting on the wide veranda 
that ran around the white house. The green blinds 
were closed, even then the sun heated the still, dark 
rooms fragrant with lavender and cleanliness. On 
the veranda it was cool in the afternoon for the 
great elm gave a refreshing shade, and the breeze 
from the blue harbor with its dancing white-caps 
came straight up the green hill to the old house. 

“I shall miss the water,” sighed Jean, with a 
wistful look at the waves; "there is only a shallow 
stream in Denver.” 

"Well dear," said Miss Franklin, "you have an- 
other home, not far off, where you can get the sea- 
breezes. ” 

"I know it, "said Jean lovingly; "I shall be home- 
131 


132 


MISS franklin’s home 


sick for Weymouth— beautiful old town by the sea! 
Only a month, then no more rows for me! In view 
of that," she added briskly, "it behooves us to take 
our boat and row up the cove; the tide is high.” 

"But look at the white caps!" objected Miss 
Franklin, timorously. 

"We’ll surmount them; it’s calmer in here; we 
won’t go out in the harbor.” 

Miss Franklin was persuaded, and provided her- 
self with veil, gloves and several shawls, as if she 
were going on a long journey to cold regions. Jean 
donned a dark blue, sailor suit with impossible white 
anchors embroidered on the collar, and a nautical 
hat such as merry tars wear on the stage, which 
consequently is never seen elsewhere. 

Their boat was moored at the foot of the lawn. 
They stepped aboard, Jean untied the painter and 
took up the oars. After they had rowed for some 
time — and exciting work it was, for the wind began 
to freshen — the quiet of the cove was invaded by a 
youth paddling about in a Rob Roy canoe. Miss 
Franklin put on her spectacles and took a calm 
survey of him. 

"Jean, it’s that rude young man who stared at you 
so in church last Sunday. We’ll go right in,” she 
said with asperity. 

'Oh dear, and it’s so pleasant, too, "sighed Jean. 

“What is so pleasant? ” asked Miss Franklin; 'not 
that young man’s impudent attempts to race with 
you? ” 


MISS franklin’s home 


133 


"I never noticed him," said Jean, innocently, but 
a little color crept into her face. "I mean the after- 
noon, the water is so lovely sparkling in the sun, 
and I’m to lose it all so soon." 

"The wind will give me neuralgia,” said Miss 
Franklin. 

"It has given you a lovely color," smiled Jean 
sending her boat ahead of the impertinent young 
man’s. "Don’t you really think it would flatter him 
if we went in? He would think we noticed him, 
and were offended. After all, we have the most 
right to the cove." 

"Indeed we have,” asserted Miss Franklin, re- 
membering an old time bitterness. "My father 
owned the flats here clear to the channel, the town 
cheated him out of them and the mill across there 
actually used to float logs here, and never paid a 
cent of rent. 1 was really glad when the saw-mill 
man failed. Jean, he is ahead of you now,” said 
Miss Franklin with much animation. "He paddles 
like the pictures of Indians in the geography, but 
what an unsafe boat! It must be hollow, for he 
seems half buried in it. Do look at that flaw strike 
it. It cants away over.” 

"Ahead, is he?” panted Jean; "he won’t stay 
so. " 

She rowed with all her might, while Miss Frank- 
lin took a lively interest in. the race, making an 
extra veil fast and hauling in the slack of a shawl 
to be ready for emergencies. Jean was now along- 


134 


MISS franklin’s home 


side the canoeist, and the impudent young man 
watched her with a smile, paddling all the time in 
that provokingly skillful way. Just as the boats 
were abreast, a puff of wind came skimming over 
the water, caught Jean’s hat, snapped the ribbons 
and flung it overboard. Jean grasped for it, but it 
was out of her reach; and the canoeist made a wild 
grab in vain. The hat bobbed up on a wave, then 
began to sink slowly. 

"I’ll get it," said the young man. 

"It’s of no consequence," answered Jean gather- 
ing up her yellow curls the wind was blowing into 
her eyes. 

The young fellow was obstinate to his cost; he 
paddled up to the hat, took its bearings with a 
nautical eye, then reached for it. He reached too 
far, and he, the hat, and the canoe all went down 
together. Miss Franklin shrieked, but Je?n seized 
her oars. She rowed up to the spot where the 
canoe was visible. Just then, like a strange ma- 
rine animal, a head and arms appeared above the 
water, and a voice yelled: 

"My legs are caught in the canoe; I’m sinking," 
and down the head went again. 

Miss Franklin cried for help, but Jean rowed 
closer to the canoe; then she waited till the black 
head came up again. She knelt in the bottom of 
the boat, and reached for it. The hair was close- 
cropped, giving no hold; her fingers ran through it, 
but succeeded in fastening to his collar. He kicked 


MISS franklin’s home 


135 


strenuously, and struggled, then came up like a 
waterman; the canoe righted and bobbed off on the 
top of a wave, half full of water; the paddle swam 
gaily along while the wet young man clung to the 
boat at the imminent risk of upsetting that. 

“You have saved my life,” he said to Jean. 

Oh dear, no,” she stammered, “you can swim.” 

'Not without feet,” he returned calmly. “I was 
caught in that canoe like a trap. Here’s your hat.” 
He held up the wet draggled thing. “It’s spoilt,” 
he said ruefully. 

“Perhaps, Jean, you had better ask the gentleman 
into the boat,” murmured Miss Franklin, with the 
air of a hostess. “This side of our boat is too near 
the water, and he must be uncomfortable.” 

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the offer with 
alacrity. “It is more comfortable, but I am sadly 
damp. May I trouble you to row in the direction 
of my canoe, to enable me to rescue it, so I can 
have some way of getting back to town?" 

They rescued the boat and paddle, and Jean 
rowed to the shore. 

“I think, sir,” said Miss Franklin, with reluctant 
politness, “you had better come up to our house 
and dry your clothes. I can let you have a suit of 
n}y father’s. You see how black that sky is becom- 
ing ; we are going to have a thunder shower. ” 

“You are very kind,” said the young man grate- 
fully; “I will accept your offer, for I have been off 
a sick bed only two weeks— brain fever — and this 


136 


MISS franklin’s home 


bath may give me a relapse. I ought to introduce 
myself,” he went on, tying their boat for them and 
dragging the canoe up on the beach. 

"Will Curtis. I am staying with Charley Hall, 
your minister’s son; he was my chum at Yale. We 
graduated in June, I know who you are — Miss 
Franklin, and Miss McClure. Charley told me. 
His father talks so much of Miss Franklin that it 
seems as if I knew her, too; and 1 hear Miss Mc- 
Clure has been West — to Denver. I spent some 
years of my life there in the early days.” 

' “That is delightful,” said Jean shyly. “We can 
compare notes; for I am going there to live in Sep- 
tember, and I want to refresh my memory.” 

They hurried to the house, as the first warning 
peal of thunder came rattling across the sky. 

“My father’s clothing is, of course, old fashioned,” 
said Miss Franklin, conducting the young man to 
one of her immaculate bedrooms; "but he was tall, 
as you are — six feet in his stocking feet. You will 
find his suit in the clothes press, and Ann will at- 
tend to your wet clothing. Come down to the sit- 
ting-room then.” 

Jean coaxed Miss Franklin to let her have the 
key of an old trunk in the attic. 

“Dear Auntie,” she pleaded, “it will be so quaint, 
you will think you have gone back to the days of 
your girlhood.” Finally Miss Franklin consented 
for she never could refuse Jean. 

After some difficulty Will got into the deceased 


MISS franklin’s home 


137 


gentleman’s suit. It was of black velvet, with 
knee-breeches, a ruffled white shirt, gay flowered 
vest, and quaintly fashioned coat. Neatly folded 
in a drawer were black silk stockings and in a box 
a pair of buckled shoes. A handsome old-time 
gentlemen young Will looked, only requiring the 
powdered hair to make him an eighteenth century 
beau. Long lace ruffles fell about his hands, over 
his vest, while the rich velvet softened his bronzed 
skin, and gave luster to his fine dark eyes.. 

"I wish my hair wasn’t so short,” he muttered, 
“it don’t suit. “But this is a jolly lark though.” 

He went down to the parlor where he found Miss 
Franklin knitting by the fire. 

“You look well in that costume,” she smiled point- 
ing to a chair near the hearth, “I had a fire built. 
It is chilly now and the wind blows. It will be a 
terrible night. ” 

“How cozy it is,” said Will, warming his hands 
at the blaze, looking at the old-time room with its 
queer figured paper, its oak wainscoting, the heavy 
mahogany furniture, the high carved mantel over 
the fire-place and the dim old family portraits around 
the walls. On the table was a silver candelabrum 
with six wax candles. He felt as if he had wan- 
dered a century back, as if the adventure were a 
dream. The only modern figure would be Jean, 
he thought. Just then she came in softly through 
the high doorway, and stood a moment in the 
shadow, looking at him with sweet, laughing face. 


138 


MISS franklin’s home 


She had donned a blue and silver brocade with 
plain, full skirt gathered to a pointed basque. 
Around her white neck was a soft lace handkerchief 
fastened with a painted brooch. She had combed 
her hair in a knot at the top of her head, and fast- 
ened it with a blue enameled comb. On her dainty 
feet were blue satin slippers a Cinderella might 
have worn. She took a high-backed old chair by 
the fire, adjusting her skirts with a queer little ges- 
ture all her own. 

"Am I dreaming?” he asked= "The room, the 
fire, the candles, you — have we gone back a hun- 
dred years?” 

"I felt so when I came in,” said Jean. "I looked 
at you, and' your resemblance to an old portrait on 
the wall there made me start. Who was the gen- 
tleman, Auntie, the one who frowns, and whose 
great, dark e)^es haunt one so? I never saw such 
sad eyes in a portrait.” 

Will rose and looked at the portrait. 

"Do tell me about him!” he pleaded with his 
winning smile. 

"It’s only a short, sad story,” said Miss Frank- 
lin, with-a gentle pride that she had ancestors and 
could tell about them. "He was my grandfather’s 
brother and lived in Weymouth — the house has gone 
to ruin long ago. He was loyal to the colonists 
and fought in the Revolution. But the woman he 
loved (she was fair like you Jean; I have a little 
miniature of her upstairs) was the daughter of a 


MISS franklin’s home 


139 


colonist who was a spy for the British while wear- 
ing the garb of a Revolutionist. He betrayed many 
plans, and one night sent his daughter with letters 
to the British camp. She passed a picket safely, 
but General Franklin, Captain then, saw the figure 
from his tent and shot her, thinking it a man in 
disguise and a spy. When he got to her she was 
dying. She only held up the letter murmuring ‘ I 
deserved it,’ and died in his arms. He never re- 
covered from the shock. After the war he came 
back to Weymouth, where he lived a lonely life. 
One night during a terrible storm he came riding 
down the street to the wharf at full speed on his 
great black horse. People saw him, but never knew 
whether he meant it or was confused by the dark- 
ness and the bright lightning, or whether he could 
not control his mad horse; but they saw by a red 
flash of lightning, horse and rider hover a moment 
on the brink of the old pier and then disappear in 
the furious, waves. They found the body in the 
morning, and buried him in our old lot here, but 
Dorothy Neal, his love, lies in the old graveyard 
at Concord, where they say the moss and decay of 
years have obliterated her name from the slate 
tombstone. Now Ann comes with supper,” said 
Miss Franklin rising; “so we will return to the 
nineteenth century.” 

Ann set the tea on a quaint, claw-footed table, 
and drew it near the fire, then (as is the fashion of 
well-meaning old servants) stopped to admire the 
company and give her opinion. 


140 


MISS franklin’s home 


“Them two looks for all the world like the pic- 
ters in books, or the portraits on the wall.’’ 

The dainty supper was served on china thin as 
egg-shells. Jean poured the tea from a silver tea- 
pot a hundred yards old. Will did justice to the 
trout, cold chicken, biscuit, and cake. 

“The trout Jean caught,’’ said Miss Franklin; 
"she and I go fishing almost every day. She is 
very expert now, but I think suffers torture taking 
the fish off the hooks. She fishes and I knit. I 
used to fish with my brother long years ago. I 
have lived my girlhood over in Jean, now that I am 
old. ’’ 

“You will never be old,’’ said Jean lovingly. 

After Ann had cleared away the tea things Miss 
Franklin said Mr. Curtis could not go back to 
town. It was over a mile to the minister’s and 
the storm was getting worse. They could hear the 
wild roar around the house while torrents of rain 
beat against the windows. 

“Jean shall sing for us,’’ added Miss Franklin. 
Will thought then he could stay forever. 

Shall I bring the light?’’ he asked as Jean went 
to the misty darkness at the end of the room and 
opened the piano. 

I like the dark best to sing in,’’ she answered 
simply; “I seldom use notes.” 

She sang sweet Scotch ballads, and Irish melo- 
dies, then that pathetic song — “Three fishers went 
sailing out into the sea.” Her voice was « central- 


MISS franklin’s home 


I4I 

to, soft and tender, a voice to make tears come and 
give new beauty to old songs. 

"Sing your father’s song,” said Miss Franklin. 
"He is always singing it to Jean. You will find it 
in the book of Burns beside you there. I think of 
Jean alwa3^s as a child who loved the Scotch poet, 
who Vead his poetry when other girls hungered for 
novels, and who somehow seemed to me a figure 
out of his sweetest poetry — a Highland lassie.” 

Will took up the book and read the poem Jean 
was singing. When she had finished, he said with 
some sh^mess: 

"That was beautiful, Miss McClure; but see, here 
is another little poem, "The Northern Lass," on the 
same subject, you name, I mean. I like this bet- 
ter, though they say Burns did not write it.” 

Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part, 

Far as the pole and line; 

Her dear idea round my heart 
Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho’ mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between 

Yet dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 

"That is for a lover to sing, "said Miss Franklin, 
"I hope it will be many, many years before one 
finds her. Jean must know no sorrows.” 

"Enough of Jean,” laughed Jean. "Do you play 
chess, Mr. Curtis?” He did. She brought out the 
board and the chessmen of ivory wonderfully carved. 
Miss Franklin watched the pretty picture they made 
in the firelight until she fell asleep and her knitting 


142 


MISS franklin’s home 


dropped unheeded. She slept as gracefully as she 
did everything else, covering her face with a lace 
handkerchief. 

"I have beaten you two games,” scolded Jean. 
“Are you playing your best?” 

"No,” he said frankly, “I was thinking.” 

"Of what?” 

"Of you. How different you are from all the 
young ladies I ever saw. What a quiet life you 
have here, beautiful as a poem, and how strange 
the world you must enter will be to you.” 

"What do you know of my future?” she said, sur- 
prised. 

"Charley Hall told me of your father and his 
wealth that you are the only child. You will be 
flattered and honored as an heiress always is. I 
think though, you will miss something in life. I 
know sometimes you will long for your happy days 
here. ” 

"You are voicing my own thoughts," sighed Jean, 
putting the chess-board away and picking up Miss 
Franklin’s knitting. He watched her white, ring- 
less fingers flit to and fro with the bright needles 
and scarlet silk. 

"That is a grandmotherly accomplishment. How 
well you do it; your* fingers fairly fly,” he said, ad- 
miringly. 

"I learned when I was a little girl and that brings 
me back to Denver. You, said you were there once? ” 

"Yes, when I was about ten, but I do not like to 


MISS franklin’s home 


143 


speak of Denver. My mother died there, and is 
buried on a wind-swept hill; I remember how bleak 
and barren it was. I was a sad little child, there 
— I missed her — I have always missed her; I always 
shall. My father married again. I like Mrs. Cur- 
tis, she is good-natured and kind; but you know 
one^s own mother is different.’’ 

“I have no mother,” said Jean, a tear glistening 
on her long eyelashes. “Father McClure adopted 
me; but he and his dear wife are my father and 
mother as much as if I were their own. I do not 
want to speak of Denver, for away back before they 
took me I was such a miserable little child. Oh, I 
can not bear to think of it. I cry sometimes at 
the thought of going back — but I am very wrong to 
talk to you in this way,” she cried abruptly. “Why 
even auntie doesn’t know that I dread to go back.” 

“I began it first,” he said with an air of peni- 
tence.” I bored you with my woes. Do you know 
the last two Sundays I saw you in church I felt as 
if I should know you sometime, though Charley 
said you were kept in as closely as a nun.” 

“He is impertinent,” frowned Jean. 

“Well, you don’t go out much, you know. Why 
I haunted this cove for a long time and bore all 
Miss Franklin’s frowns.” 

“Then you planned to meet me?,” Jean asked. 

“Of course not. How was I to know your hat 
would blow overboard? I did think, perhaps you 
might fall overboard and I could rescue you; I 
never dreamed you would rescue me.” 


144 


MISS franklin’s home 


"It served you right,” said Jean. 

Then Miss Franklin awoke, much surprised that 
it was ten o’clock and bed-time, and that she had 
been asleep. She begged to be excused, and rang 
for Ann, who brought in some wine and little seed 
cakes. 

"It was my father’s custom always, before retir- 
ing,” said Miss Franklin, "therefore I continue it, 
though Jean seldom keeps me company. Then she 
is young, and doesn’t need anything to make her 
sleep. ” 

"I’m not very old, but I like that wine," said 
Will. "I think your father must have been a very 
thoughtful old gentleman.” He was going to say 
"pretty level-headed” but checked himself in time. 
He felt slang would be profanity here. 

He slept that night in a four-post bedstead with 
curtains, where he dreamed Miss Franklin’s father 
came in the airy costume of a shroud, and with 
hollow voice demanded his clothing profaned by the 
stranger, stretching his skeleton hand for it. 

"It must have been that confounded wine,” mut- 
tered Will when he woke at daylight. 

He found his clothing neatly dried at the door, 
dressed himself and returned to the nineteenth 
century. He went down stairs, where Miss Jean in 
a bewitching white dress was gathering roses in the 
garden. 

"We were waiting for you,” she said. "We have 
breakfast in the summer-house.” He followed her 


MISS FRANKUN^S HOME I45 

to a repast of strawberries and cream, steak, and 
delicious coffee. 

“You have a fine cook,” he said. 

“Jean got breakfast,” smiled Miss Franklin. 
“This is our prosaic wash-day and Ann is busy.” 

He wondered if there was anything Jean could 
not do, and what his sister Maud would say if her 
parents requested her to get breakfast. He felt he 
was banished from Eden when he went away carry- 
ing in the lapel of his coat a rose and sprig of mig- 
nonette Jean picked for him, or rather that he 
asked of her. 

Poor, dear Miss Franklin had no idea what would 
follow, and was powerless now to prevent it; but 
she rejoiced Jean was going away in a month. She 
could not help liking Will Curtis with his honest, 
manly ways, his politeness and respect to her and 
his invariable courtesy. He and Charley Hall and 
Mr. and Mrs. Hall were her frequent visitors; they 
organized picnics, rows and rides, always in a party, 
so Miss Franklin thought there could be no harm 
in this. Will was at times furiously jealous of 
Charley Hall, admitting enviously the “fellow was 
good looking,” etc. Jean was always the same, and 
seemed really to like the old minister the best of 
them all. 

The happy month of August passed, and one 
night, the first of September, Will brought a letter 
from the postoffice for Miss Jean McClure, post- 
marked Denver. He felt this letter meant her de- 

lOD 


146 


MISS franklin’s home 


parture, that she would go away and forget him — 
he would only be an acquaintance to her, but she 
was all the world to himJ 


CHAPTER XI 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 

They were at tea when Will came in, and there 
was Charley Hall, making himself “infernally agree- 
able, of course.” 

“Here’s a letter for you Miss McClure,” said 
Will, with much stiffness. He refused tea, fanning 
himself with his hat in a sulky manner. 

Jean took the letter with trembling hands. She 
read it, and said, with a break in her voice: 

“We must start in two days, auntie. Father 
writes that Senator Brooks, a friend of his whom 
he met abroad, will come for us. He is going 
West. That will be pleasant for us." 

“Delightful, ” exclaimed Miss Franklin. “Senator 
Brooks? An old gentleman, probably, who will 
look after us and our baggage, and relieve me of a 
care I dreaded.” 

“Brooks isn’t much over forty,” said Will, gloom 
ily. “He is a lumberman; owns forests and mills; 
unmarried, too.” He went on making the worst of 
the case. “He is a friend of m3'’ father’s. I know 
him; he is — well, he isn’t a bad looking man. They 
think him a great catch in New York.” 

“This is indeed pleasant,” said Miss Franklin ma- 
147 


148 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


liciously, for poor Will openly showed a hopeless 
jealousy at which she took offense. ' He will prob- 
ably be here to-night, if we start the day after to- 
morrow. ” 

They went out on the veranda then, Charley Hall 
still agreeable, but Will silent and morose. At 8 
o’clock the Weymouth hack drove up the avenue 
and an elegant gentleman alighted. A man of forty- 
five or thereabouts, with gray hair and mustache, 
and agreeable presence. He introduced himself as 
Thomas Brooks; he bowed low when he was intro- 
duced to Miss McClure, very stiffly when Mr. Hall 
was mentioned, but bestowed on Will a careless 
nod. 

“Ah, Bill.” he said, "your mother is expecting you 
at Newport.” 

To be called Bill — vulgar Bill — and to be told 
his mother was expecting him was too much for 
Mr. Curtis’ dignity. He bowed coldly and took his 
leave followed by Mr. Hall, also in a gloomy mood. 

“I hate that man,” said Will fiercely, when they 
were out of earshot. “He thinks he is somebody be- 
cause he bought a seat in the United States Senate; 
anybody could that would put up the money; it 
doesn’t need brains, or education, or even intelli- 
gence.” 

“He is an ass,” said Charley, a melancholy echo. 

Senator Brooks made himself so entertaining, 
both ladies were delighted they were to have such 
a pleasant traveling companion. Miss Franklin in- 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


149 


sisted on his staying at the house, and the next day 
he took the ladies for a farewell drive around Wey- 
mouth. 

The last night of Jean’s stay in town of course, 
the Halls came to say good-bye, and Charley with 
them, but no Mr. Curtis. Jean noticed his absence, 
thinking with disappointment he might, at least 
have called to say farewell. Notwithstanding the 
Halls were so pleasant and Senator Brooks enter- 
taining, she went out on the veranda ‘down the old 
granite steps to the avenue. She felt that he 
might be there, and there he was, looking up to 
the lighted windows like a lost soul shut out from 
Paradise. 

"Why don’t you come in, Mr. Curtis? I was 
afraid I should not see you before I left." 

"You cared then," he cried in the accents of de- 
spair. 

"Of course I did; I like you so well, we have 
been such friends,” she said warmly. 

"Mr. Brooks” (with accent on the Mister, ignor- 
ing the Senator) "is very agreeable," said Will, vi- 
ciously. 

"He is indeed," Jean answered, mildly. 

"Being so old, he has seen a good deal." 

"He does not seem old, and he was ever so kind 
to father abroad. ” 

"I suppose you are glad to go," muttered Will. 

"No indeed; I love Weymouth; I have been 
happy here. But father and mother have spared 


150 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


me four years, and I must give them my time now. ” 

They had walked up to the steps, where the tall 
rose bushes beside the walk filled the soft night 
air with sweet perfume. 

“I wish it were always summer, with pleasant 
friends,” said Jean softly. The light from the win- 
dow shone down on her pure young face with its 
coronal of golden hair. 

‘T wish there were no ‘good-byes,’” Will echoed, 
sadly. “You and Miss Franklin have been so kind, 
so good to me. I have had such a happy month. 

I thought maybe you would come out a moment; I 
hoped you would. I did not want to say good-bye 
to you before them all. You have been so different 
to me from other women; you are a woman a man 
would die for — that he could worship as a sweet 
saint to make him better. Life has been so changed 
to me since I knew you; nothing will ever be the 
same to me again — Ah, do not start. Miss McClure 
—don’t look so scared — dear Jean, I am not myself, 
I’m half mad. All the goodness my mother taught 
me comes to me when I see you; all unhappiness 
of my life and surroundings is doubly depressing to 
go back to. Do not be angry with me; I will not 
keep you, I will not say another word.” 

Jean started away from him, frightened by his- 
passionate words, his burning glance. 

"Give me a rose — a white rose, like yourself, that 
is all," he said, hoarsely. 

She gave him one tremblingly. He kissed the 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL I51 

hand that held the rose quickly, then he strode 
away down the path, and slammed the gate behind 
him. Jean staggered up the steps. Her mind was 
dazed; she trembled in every limb; she wanted to 
cry with joy, and yet she was strangely conscience- 
stricken. Just then Miss Franklin called her, and 
she deceived that kind friend. She told her she 
was out taking a farewell look at her old home in 
the starlight: she did not tell her she was taking a 
farewell look at Will Curtis, too. Deceit often fol- 
lows love as naturally as flowers do buds. There is 
a sweet secrecy in stolen meetings no heart will 
give to the world. 

“What is it to me?” Jean cried that night, look- 
ing out of her chamber window in a restless, fever- 
ish mood. “What is it to me whether I see him or 
not? Why do I feel so hopeful, such longing? 
Why do I remember every word he said, his look, 
his touch. Ah, I have lost something in my life 
— I have gained something! It is all a mystery to 
me! Last night I looked out here, I saw the stars, 
the old tree. I heard the water lapping against 
the shore — that was all; but to-night, no matter 
where I look, what I see I only seem conscious of 
his face, his dark eyes and, I hear only his words. 
They were so sweet, so sweet!” 

Jean knelt down, her golden head on her folded 
arms. Miss Franklin coming in softly found her 
there. 

“Homesick at the thought of leaving, Jean?” she 
said fondly. 


152 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


"Homesick and heartsick,” Jean sobbed, fright- 
ened at the thought of her ne'wly awakened love. 

They left for the West early the next morning 
and Jean looked in vain for one who did not come. 
Will had mounted his horse and gone away from 
the village before dawn. As the train whirled on 
she watched the winding roads and farms; at a 
cross road that ran from a piece of woods across 
the track to another forest patch she saw a horse- 
man — a motionless horse with erect ears and wide, 
frightened eyes, and his rider looking with sad face 
at the train. She knew who it was. She sank back 
with a little sigh and saw Senator Brooks’ e5^es 
fixed on her face. He had seen the horseman, but 
Miss Franklin, beside Jean, was unconscious of the 
little scene. 

A pleasant journey they had! Mr. Brooks was 
all kindness and attention, aud knew everything 
there was to know on the way. They crossed the 
wide plains in a luxurious Pullman car. Brooks, 
looking back, saw himself a wagon-driver crossing 
the same tracts of arid land years before, then saw 
himself returning east a millionaire. What a 
strange world it was! He dreaded going back. 
No one would know him, he thought. The popula- 
tion was different now, most of the miners and pio- 
neers had crossed the range and gone prospecting 
in another world. He started; there was one who 
would know him — Rose McCord. But he smiled 
at this thought. She was only a servant girl, pro- 
bably married now to one of her own class. 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


153 


"Is that Denver?” Jean asked, one morning as 
the train neared a city where church spires and 
grand buildings glistened in the sunlight, while far 
about it lay beautiful suburban homes. "It’s like 
a city in the Arabian Nights. It has risen in a 
day; and the blue mountains, the snow-clad peaks, 
the sunny sky! It is beautiful; it is home." 

She was carried away by her surprise but the sen- 
ator was silent. He saw from the car platform the 
old wooden house, tree-shaded, vine-clad, with its 
pillared portico. Near it was a grand stone man- 
sion. 

"Where is your home. Miss McClure?" he said, 
going back to the excited girl. 

"At Highland, on the hill, father wrote, next 
door to an old-time house, where a Miss Wallace 
lives. " 

It seemed like fate to Senator Brooks. He felt 
a presentiment of evil, but laughed at it a moment 
later. 

"Denver! " yelled the brakeman at one end of the 
car, and "Denver!" he yelled at the other end. The 
senator helped the ladies out, and the porter carried 
their baggage. They went to the waiting-room of 
the depot but hardly opened the door before the 
door on the other side opened, and a lady and gen- 
tleman rushed in. 

"I told ye we’d be late, McClure," said the lady. 

"There she is, my Jean!" shouted the old man, 
rushing across the room; "more beautiful than ever. 


154 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


and actually crying for joy. Senator, how do you 
do? Miss Franklin, God bless you. You’re as 
welcome as the buds in spring. Bid — Mrs. Mc- 
Clure, I mean — you know the Senator? Where was 
it? Oh, Venice; I fell overboard, and you dragged 
me up; and that other place. Mount Vesuvius 
wasn’t it? Wife got her petticoats afire and you 
put it oiit — that treacherous lava looked cool, but 
red hot — No hack, we’ve carriages of our own.” He 
went on, ushering the party to a retired corner of 
the depot. “Why of course, you’re coming to the 
house, Senator; I would never forgive you if you 
went to a hotel. I brought the buggy; you and I 
will ride up together. Mrs. McClure, you take 
Miss Franklin and Jean with you. What do you 
think of that black span. Senator? Good horse- 
flesh, eh? Kentucky thoroughbreds — blue grass. 
Be careful of the ladies, Jim; they’re mighty pre- 
cious." 

Talking and engineering the party, McClure got 
the ladies in the carriage and set out in the buggy 
with the senator. What a happy old man he was; 
if ever a man did good, made the world happier, 
and enjoyed every dollar of his money, it was Lucky 
McClure. His carriage was the finest made, satin- 
lined, blue — to match Jean’s eyes, he said. Jean 
lay back in it while just a bit of pride in her luxury 
and state crept into her innocent heart. Miss 
Franklin sat up so straight and dignified she was 
quite a sight to behold. Biddy had grown fat with 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


155 


prosperity, and developed with a matronly plump- 
ness, much liking for dress and the things denied 
in her wandering life. She had educated herself to 
be ladylike, and having a noble, kind heart, made 
no mistakes at which the world could laugh. 

Virginia Wallace was sitting by her bedroom win- 
dow when the carriage drove up. She saw Mrs. 
McClure getting out; she and that good-natured 
lady were warm friends. No one could withstand 
the sunshine of Biddy's sweet disposition. Then a 
grayhaired lady alighted with much state, followed 
by a beautiful girl in blue. 

“How loyely she is!” Miss Virginia said aloud; 
her companion, Rose McCord, joined her at the 
window. 

A great catch, too. Miss Wallace; McClure's 
worth his millions. That must be the Jean they 
talked about.” 

“A sweet girl,” said Miss Wallace, dreamily. “I 
hope no unscrupulous fortune-hunter will win her. 
There 'is the buggy; Mr. McClure has company, 
too. “ 

They looked at the new arrival; Miss Wallace 
heard a moan, then Rose McCord staggered and 
fell lifeless to the floor. The stranger had gone in; 
Rose could not have known him, and she had not 
seemed ill. Why had she fainted? Miss Wallace 
did not stop for conjecture but hurried to bring 
Rose back to life, for she had grown to care for her 
as a sister. 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


156 

One afternoon while the gentlemen were out Miss 
Wallace announced her intention of visiting the 
new mansion, and made her first call in twenty 
years. Mrs. McClure was highly pleased, and Jean 
straightway fell in love with the sweet, white-haired 
lady with the sad face and violet eyes, whose black 
and crape seemed as if it had been a life-long at- 
tire. Miss Franklin was also delighted; she was 
quick to see that the stranger was a lady. Jean 
sang for her, and talked to her of her Weymouth 
life; and Miss Wallace felt an interest in the hap- 
py, bright girl she never had in any one before. 
After this they were great friends, Jean spending 
much of her time at the old house, or driving with 
Miss Wallace in the cumbersome old family car- 
riage drawn by two fat, lazy horses. Jean had a 
sympathetic nature; she saw that her new friend 
had suffered, she felt her young life brightened and 
cheered this woman whose face bore such deep 
lines of sorrow. 

Rose McCord looked on the new intimacy with 
jealousy; one day she slipped over to the stone 
mansion and asked for the laundress. The servants 
told her Mrs. Cowan was down in 'the basement, 
wondering why she should seek her; for Rose held 
her head high, allowing no familiar speech with any 
of the neighboring servants. She went down to the 
laundry, where a thin, dark woman was folding 
clothes. Rose shut the door and went up to the 
woman. 


A SENATORIAL RIVAL 


157 


"Do you know me?" she said. 

"I’d think so nigh enuff, " muttered the woman. 

"Did you know me a good while ago?" Rose con- 
tinued. 

"Never see yer afore I come here." 

"That is a lie, "said Rose calmly, seating herself. 
"I know you. Your husband was shot by the son 
of the old woman your husband almost starved to 
death — an old woman found chained to a wall in a 
filthy room. You are Mrs. Green." 

"For God’s sake don’t talk so loud. It ’ud ruin 
me," sobbed the woman, sinking to the floor, rock- 
ing herself to and fro, "I’ve been hounded for years. 
I took another name. I’ve worked in the moun- 
tains, in Cheyenne, an’ here, where I’ve a good 
place an’ pay. Wot hev you agin me? Have pity 
on me an’ let me stay here till I die." 

"I have no wish to hurt you," said Rose, kindly; 
"though you played me a mean trick about that 
child, who was a near relative of mine. Never mind 
that, however.” 

"It was Jonas," sobbed the woman. 

"Maybe; but what I want to know is who took the 
child?" 

. "McGinnis, or some such name," sniffled Mrs. 
Green, under her apron. 

"You are lying,” said Rose, coldly. "You cannot 
deceive me; I have only to tell them who you are 
and you will be turned away. Come, be sensible; 
tell me what you know. I shall never break faith 
with you.” 


158 A SENATORIAL RIVAL 

“What’ll I git outer it?” said the woman, slyly. 

“My check for $150. I have money in the bank 
here; I don’t care for it; Miss Wallace gives me all 
I want. She will leave me plenty when she dies. 
I have made the check out. Now, why have I done 
it? Because I knew who you were; I’ve watched 
you till I guessed it. Now your secret is worth 
more to me than money. I want revenge, which 
that child can give to me." ^ 

“Will it hurt her, too?” asked the hag eagerly, 
“break her heart, ruin her pride? Oh, I hate her!” 

“It will make her life a torment to her,” said 
Rose. “Quick, I will be suspected; where is she? 
You were too keen to lose all track of her. Where 
is she? Who took her? ” 

The woman stretched out her lean hand for the 
check. 

“The story first,” said Rose. 

“This is true — I swear it, ” whispered the woman. 
“Jonas an’ I never knowed fur a long spell who hed 
her, till I found out t’was Lucky McClure. She is 
that Jean upstairs. He ’dopted her an’ brung her 
up as his’n.” 

“I might have known,” muttered Rose with hag- 
gard face. “Is my own sin to rise and curse me? 
Here is your check. I may want you again. I 
will pay you for your services if I do. ” 

Then Rose went away, and the miserable wretch 
hid the check in her bosom. 


CHAPTER XII 


A lover’s quarrel 

When a man past forty is really in love for the 
first time in his life, the tender passion takes en- 
tire possession of him. He is even to be pitied es- 
pecially when the object is a girl less than half his 
age. Senator Brooks loved Jean, McClure and his 
wife favored the suit, as did Miss Franklin. To 
their simple minds a senator was a great man. 
Brooks was wealthy, and a man of the world, who 
would make a good husband. Jean had young lov- 
ers in plenty, for she became a great favorite in 
Denver society, but she seemed to care for none of 
them. She was heart-whole, therefore her parents 
did not see any reason why she should not like 
Mr. Brooks, in time perhaps love him. Jean liked 
the senator because he was kind and courteous, and 
her parents liked himj but she dreamed always of 
a dark, boyish face and glowing eyes. 

One day Brooks got a letter from New York. It 
was a business letter, but had a postcript which 
ran: 

“By the way. Will is out in your neighborhood 
somewhere. He was crazy to go, and I had to let 
him. Keep an eye on him if you can, and don’t let 
159 


l6o A lover’s quarrel 

him get into any scrapes with women. You know 
I intend him to marry my partner’s daughter; you 
know me too well to think I will allow anything to 
thwart me. Mrs. C. sends love," etc. 

That evening the door bell of the McClure man- 
sion sounded a modest ring, and the old Scotchman 
whom McClure had unearthed from some haunt of 
his childhood in Scotland, announced "Meester Cur- 
tis,” and Will, in his finest attire made a shy en- 
trance into the brilliantly lighted parlor. He went 
through the introduction nervously. Miss Franklin’s 
welcome was warm and kind, then Jean came in 
giving him a little trembling hand, and he felt as 
brave as a lion. He surpassed himself, became 
witty and entertaining, and actually snubbed the 
senator. McClure took a great liking to him, and 
Mrs. McClure also; after he was gone they admit- 
ted he was a fine manly young fellow. The sena- 
tor over a late cigar with McClure said Will was a 
splendid fellow, his father idolized him, and he 
was to marry the daughter of his father’s partner 
in a year or so. 

"Weel, weel, that’s right pleasant, "said McClure. 
'T like to see a lad marry yoiing. I was only 
twenty when Biddy and I met and got married, God 
bless her!" 

But the old man looked with some disapproval 
on young Will’s frequent visits. It seemed like the 
silly flirting young people of the day indulged in. 
He never did that; he loved one lass, married her. 


A lover’s quarrel 


i6i 


and had little to say to others. He wanted his Jean 
to love one man, marry him, and have no follies to 
remember. "A lass that’s dancing wi’ that one, - 
and riding wi’ this, and a’ the rest, isn’t the one 
that wins the best husband, ” said McClure to Bid- 
dy. “They’re apt to have but a puir creature in 
the end.” 

Jean had no idea of flirting at all. She liked 
Will. She did not know he was to marry another, 
she danced with him, sang for him, and went rid- 
ing with him, or with the senator, never varying 
in her courtesy to either. 

“It will never do,” said McClure; I thus t tell the 
child.” He was looking at Jean ride off with Will. 
She looked back and flung him a kiss. "The bon- 
nie thing,” he said, fondly. “Such a gentle heart, 
so loving, so trusting. She’d never think evil o’ 
any one.” 

The senator came up to talk to him then, and 
they went to the library. 

“Are these sketches yours?" asked the senator, 
opening a portfolio. “Yes,” said McClure shyly. 
“The 3 ^’re little to boast of but when Biddy — Mrs. 
McClure — and I were travelers or tramps, 1 used to 
take comfort putting the beautiful scenery on paper; 
and when we worked again to get enough for an- 
other journey we used to look at ’em at home, and 
travel all the roads again; but we settled down here 
finally, and I went to mining, where I struck it." 

“Did you take Miss Jean with you in your wan- 
derings?” 


i 62 


A lover’s quarrel 


“No” answered McClure, awkwardly, "Jean is an 
adopted child, but we love her as our own; she 
shall have all when we are gone.” 

"You do not know of her parents?” 

“No.” 

“What matters that?” said the senator gravely. 
"You will wonder at my question, Mr. McClure, 
but I love Jean. I want to make her my wife. 
Will you give her to me?” 

"Willingly, with all my heart,” said McClure, ex- 
tending his honest hand; "and Bid— Mrs. McClure, 
too, she likes you, and so does Miss Franklin.” 

"And Jean?” asked the senator, anxiously. 

"That I don’t know sir; she may learn to. She 
is all gentleness, all sweetness but I would not urge 
her. She shall marry the man she loves, and she 
won’t love one unworthy of her. Where she gives 
her heart she gives her hand. She is young, only 
eighteen. ” 

"Yes, young, but she might love wrongly; some 
one she could not marry — some one bound to an- 
other. ’’ 

"You mean young Curtis,” said McClure bluntly; 
"I will see to that. Jean must not care for another 
lassie’s lover. She is too proud.” 

When Jean came back for her ride Biddy called 
her aside, and said, with much mystery, that her 
father wanted to see her in the library. Jean ran 
there in her dark blue habit. She sat on the old 
man’s knee, wound her arm around his neck, and 
laid her soft cheek against his. 


A lover’s quarrel 


163 


"Now Pm ready to be scolded," said she. 

"Scold you, Jean, you know I canna’," he said 
fondl}^, "my Jean; but dear, do you think you should 
ride with a young man who loves another lass?" 

"Who," cried Jean, her cheek turning pale. 

"Young Curtis, dear. His father’s partner has a 
daughter — " 

"And he loves her," Jean murmured. 

"He must; they are to be married soon. It is 
his father’s wish, nor is he the lad to marry a lass 
without loving her." 

"I will not go again," said Jean bravely. "Is 
this all?" 

"The rest is pleasanter, dear. Do, Jean, let me 
look into your eyes; your voice sounds strange. 
Do you love the young man?" 

"I domot fling my love away," she said, lifting 
her head, looking at him with a steadfast gaze. 

"I believe you, " he answered much relieved. "Well 
Jean, the senator wants to marry you. 

"Me!” cried Jean, leaving McClure, looking at 
him with horrified face. "Me, father? Oh, dear, 
no, I never could — you would not want me to! He 
is kind, I like him; but ah, to marry him, to live 
side by side, like you and mother, to grow into 
each other’s lives, to feel the same hopes and fears, 
to walk hand-in-hand every step! Father, could I 
do that with him? He is so much older than I. I 
feel hope, I see beauty in the world; he sees none, 
has outlived belief in good. Would you make a 


164 


A lover’s quarrel 


child the companion of a man? Would you make 
me his companion? The child must grow to woman- 
hood, and I must live many, many years, to learn 
to be like him. Put me with him for my best, my 
dearest friend, my constant companion, and I die 
stunted, dwarfed, like the elms here in this arid 
soil. No, no, father; not marriage with the sena- 
tor!” 

“Wise Jean!” sighed the old man; "you talk like 
a sage, but you look like an angel. He will not 
give you up so easily; but, dear child, you shall 
have no influence from us either way. Follow your 
own true heart. " 

Will was coldly received that night, and Jean’s 
pale face lighted with no sweet smile when she saw 
him. He suspected the senator. Away back in his 
childhood his mother had disliked Brooks, and he 
had never outgrown his childish hate. Instead of \ 
bearing the coldness and breaking his heart because 
Jean would not speak kindly to him, he went straight 
to the stone mansion in the morning and demanded 
an interview with Mr. McClure. He passed Jean 
and the senator riding as he went along, receiving- 
a cool bow from both. Mr. McClure and he^were 
mutually nervous at the interview. 

"Will you sit down, sir?” said Mr. McClure. 

‘'No,” said Will; ‘T only came to your house to 
ask you a question; I am honest; I do not deceive. 

I came here last night; every one was cold to me; 
Miss McClure hardly looked at me. What have I 


A lover’s quarrel 


165 

done? ” he went on piteously. "I worship the ground 
she walks on. I would lay down my life for her.’’ 

"I do not understand you,” said McClure, stiffly. 

“What has Senator Brooks told you?" pleaded 
the lad. "There is something; you have been kind 
to me. She was glad to see me once.” 

"Only that you are engaged to the daughter of your 
father’s partner in New York,” said McClure with 
much severity. "I am an old fashioned man, Mr. 
Curtis; I never loved, or flirted, as you call it, wuth 
but one woman, and she is my wife. I am honora- 
ble, sir; I expect honor in others. Jean is true- 
hearted; she would scorn you for treating a woman 
you are to marry so lightly as you are doing now.” 

"It is all a lie!" cried \y ill, hotly. "Mr. McClure, 
listen to me. My father’s partner, John Whitney, 
has a daughter; she is two years older than I. She 
is a society girl all affectation and airs. I never 
liked her, nor do I think she cares for me. Our 
fathers want the match — both think it will make 
their partnership more binding. She will marry me 
for money, she has no heart; no love for anybody. 
I graduated from college last summer — I would not 
go home on her account. I went to Weymouth; I 
saw your daughter there and I loved her. She was 
so different from other women I had known. I went 
to that quaint old house; I saw Miss Franklin; she 
was a lady like my dead mother. Oh, sir, I have 
lived in shams and shows so long that it brought 
me back to my mother. Do you wonder that last 


A lover’s quarrel 


1 66 

summer was the happiest in my life? I could not 
go back to New York; it almost killed me; I plead- 
ed to my father to let me go to my dear mother’s 
people in Boston. They have no intercourse with 
him, for he treated my mother badly. He said he 
would do all in his power to hurt me. He was my 
father after all, so I did not go. Then I pleaded 
that he should let me come West for a short time 
to visit the scenes of my childhood, and see my 
mother’s grave. At last he consented; I came here 
to care for my mother’s neglected grave; but mostly 
to see the woman I loved. I am poor, dependent 
on my father’s bounty, hating that I take; yet I 
dared to love her! I cannot understand it, I do 
not; I only know I will work to be worthy of her. 
I am only twenty-two. I have my brains, my 
strength, and I have perseverance. Sir, you speak 
of honor; I have never told Jean I loved her. I 
have never tried to win her love. I have treated 
her as a sister, as an angel far above me. You 
have heard me! Make me right with her, tell her 
I am not engaged, how could I be, loving her, and 
I will go away, I will never see her again.” 

‘T like you. Will Curtis; I believe you,” said 
McClure heartily. "If you can win Jean you may 
have her. I was young myself once. Biddy an’ me 
married with fifty cents in our cash box an’ we’ve 
never had a word in our forty years of married life. 
Young love is best. I believe Jean half likes ye. 
If I was a young man now,” he said, slyly, "I 


A lover’s quarrel 


167 


wouldn’t be long in finding out.” He went to the 
door. Some one was coming through the hall. 

“Come here, Jean,” he said, drawing her into the 
library. “Here is a young man we must apologize 
to; we have been mistaken about him. He’s an 
honest lad, if he doesn’t look it now,- but rather as 
if he had done something he was ashamed of. You 
make my apologies, dear,” and he vanished, shut- 
ting the door. 


CHAPTER XIII 


A REVELATION 

"There is no necessity for apology,” said Will, 
stiffly. "Mr. McClure was deceived, that is all." 

"I believed it, too,” said Jean, penitently. 

"You must have thought me a cad. I think wo- 
men are strange. I worshiped you, I followed you 
like a dog; and then you believed I was in love 
with another woman! I can’t understand your sex. " 

"You do not know us well enough," said Jean, 
going up to him, holding out her little hand in its 
tan riding gauntlet. "Will you forgive me, let us 
be the good friends we were?" 

He took her hand and his ill humor vanished. 
He looked into her lovely, pleading face as he said 
with a break in his voice: 

"We can never be friends again. Miss McClure.” 

"I do not understand you," she cried, trying to 
draw her hand away; "you are wrong and cruel to 
make so much of a trifle." 

"There can never be friendship on my part again,” 
he went on hurriedly — "never again. I cannot hide 
my feeling for 5^ou. Can’t you see, Jean, I love you? 
that I love you not as a friend, but as a lover. 

168 


A REVELATION 


169 


Jean, will you look at me? Are you angry? Why 
do you turn away? Don^t you care for me? Is it 
the senator? Do you love him?” 

"I hate him," said Jean. 

“So do I; there is a bond between us. Oh, Jean, 
do look at me; why won’t you answer?" 

Jean snatched her hand away, ran to the sofa and 
buried her burning face in the crimson cushion. 
He looked ruefully at the golden head, the pretty, 
slight figure in the blue riding habit. He did not 
know what to do. He went over to the sofa. 

“Am I hateful to you?" 

“No," from the depths of the cushion. 

He took hope from this, and knelt down beside 
her. 

“Bhall I leave you?" 

No answer this time. He waited impatiently; 
after a pause he saw the golden head rise ; two big 
tears were in the violet eyes, but a lovely smile 
was on the pretty mouth. Two soft arms went 
around his neck, and the rose-petal cheek was laid 
close to his. That was Jean; she was too happy 
for words. He sorhehow lost all awe of her; how 
simple it all was! It was the most natural thing in 
the world that he should kneel at her feet, and hold 
her fast and kiss her. 

“Yet dearer than my deathless soul 
I still would love my Jean.” 

“I can say that now,” he whispered. “I loved 
you from the first day I saw you in church.” 


A REVELATION 


170 

“I liked you," said Jean, shyly; "for, now don’t 
laugh, you know the painting of General Franklin? 
Well, you looked just like him. I always was in 
love with that picture, and used to think how brave 
he was and all. Then you fell overboard that day, 
I felt so scared. But I think I knew I more than 
liked you when you went away that night, and — 
and — " 

"And kissed your hand," he laughed. "How 
scared I was. I thought I had mortally offended 
you, then the next day I saw you visiting with the 
senator. I could have killed him." 

They talked on, comparing their innocent hopes 
and fears, while the jolly old sun crept in the 
blind, touched Jean’s golden hair, and seemed to 
rejoice with a yellow light at the pretty picture. 
By and by a gentle knock came to the door. Will 
assumed a dignified attitude on a distant chair 
while Jean’s blushes chased each other faster and 
faster. 

"It’s only me," said Biddy, beaming on them. 
"Lunch is ready; you take Mr. Curtis, to the di- 
ning-room. Your father and I are through, we were 
tired waiting for you." 

"Dear mother," Jean stammered, hiding her blush- 
ing face on that matronly bosom. 

"Indeed, I’d not wished a better son-in-law. It’s 
beautiful in you young folks. I suspected it, and 
now, Mr. Curtis — but it’s Will now; you’re going 
to be our boy, too — you make my Jean happy, that’s 


A REVELATION 


171 

all McClure and I ask. Sure, I was breaking my 
heart that the senator might take her off, him old 
enough to be her father; but then a senator’s a 
great man.” 

“Will can be one some day,” said Jean, proudly. 
“You know, mother, you love him, too. You liked 
him from the first. ” 

"Indeed, I did. Those honest eyes of his and » 
his manly ways would win him liking anywhere. 
The impudent young feller,” she finished, as Will 
gave her a hearty kiss. 

The senator was forgotten for a time. They all 
caught Jean’s happiness, and were secretly delight- 
ed with her choice. To honest, good people, there 
is something rarely sweet in the love of young 
hearts, and there is something unnatural in the mar- 
riage of a young girl to a man nearly thrice her age. 

McClure, with some uncomfortable apologies, 
told the senator his cause was hopeless, and the 
senator accepted it with resignation. He went to 
Denver to the hotel, for the happiness of the young 
lovers was torture to him. How happy Jean was! 
Such rides she had, such walks, such songs, with 
Will to turn the leaves, such sweet hours in the 
beautiful parlors, such dreams of him, such realiza- 
tion of her dreams! Her nature craved love and 
kindness; caresses were as natural to her as loving 
words. She was a creature to be loved, tender as 
a sensitive plant. 

One day, Will, whose presents were of a singu- 


172 


A REVELATION 


lar character, brought her a setter dog of a silky 
brown color, with beautiful yellow eyes, and mar- 
velously intelligent. 

“Dick’s his name,” said Will, “after a chum of 
mine. “I’ve had him eight months. “He’s the 
most affectionate animal; I know you’ll like him.” 
Of course Jean went into raptures over him. She 
added him to her pets, two canaries and a parrot, 
all Will’s gifts and cherished him the most. Dick 
was a wise dog. His quarters were more comfort- 
able at the McClure house than being tied up in a 
shed and being taken out occasionally for exercise. 
Then his new owner petted him twenty times a day, 
and fed him with French candy, attention his mas- 
ter had entirely neglected. Where Jean was, Dick 
was; the plush furniture was none too good for 
him, and he slept at the side of his mistress’ bed. 

McClure laughed at Jean’s menagerie, saying he 
would have to build another house for them; but he 
was a great admirer of Will, satisfied with all he 
did. Miss Franklin, who had a romantic corner in 
her heart — as all good old maids have — was de- 
lighted with Jean’s choice. The senator was a 
fine gentleman, with wealth and position; but had 
he been the accepted lover, Jean would not have 
been child-like, happy Jean. 

She would have tried to grow to his older ways, 
his coldness and dignity, and something would have 
been lost from the girl’s sweet life. 

The senator made preparations to return to New 


A REVELATION 


173 


York. He made up his mind often to write to 
Henry Curtis of Will’s engagement; then he rea- 
soned over it. Curtis would not be apt to refuse 
his consent if Will were determined on marriage 
with Jean, who after all, was an heiress. 

The senator was nettled at the bare thought of 
her. He had not cared for her money; he loved 
her. She was beautiful, she would be the rage in 
Washington, she would add lustre to his name; 
then, more tormenting than all else in his disap- 
pointment, was the remembrance of her pretty ways, 
the glance of her dark eyes, the touch of her soft 
hand, the music of her voice. It seemed possible 
once he might possess her; but this boy had defeat- 
ed him, had won the prize, a mere boy, with neither 
money nor position, an unmannerly cub, the sena- 
tor thought bitterly. There were • hundreds of wo- 
men he might have married, it was fate he loved 
the one denied him. He was wasting time, gaining 
nothing, and posing in Denver as a rejected lover, 
while the two young people were riding every day. 
He never went out but he saw them. He never 
went to McClure’s but they were together. He 
could not bear it. The night he made up his mind 
to return, the bell boy came to his room in the hotel. 
This bell boy was a small freckled youth, with a 
preternaturally shrewd and knowing look. Under 
his faint, thin hair was a Machiavellian brain. He 
eyed the great man passively and indifferently. 

"What do you want, boy?" asked the great man. 


174 


A REVELATION 


"Lady in palor; wants ter see yer; priwate inter- 
view; no keerd, she sed. " 

There was a knowing look in the freckled boy’s 
eye and a contraction of the eyelid; but he reflected 
he might lose his place, so he cast both his eyes 
down. "Did she say anything else — give any name? ” 

"Told me ter say ’twas important, that’s all.” 

"Show her up,” said the senator, with some anx- 
iety. He thought it might be some woman with a 
grievance or a demand for help, she must be a very 
bold beggar to come in this way. A faint hope 
crossed his mind there might be trouble at High- 
land and Mrs. McClure had come to consult him; 
but it was after ten, and it would have been a 
strange proceeding. 

He went into his private parlor, where the bell- 
boy ushered in a lady, all in black, with a long 
crape veil over her face. The boy, with the air of 
a partner in the mystery, went out shutting the 
door softly. 

* Wonder now,” he said to himself as he ambled 
down the hall with the stiffness of an ancient tor- 
toise, "if she’s got a rewolver. She looks like them 
that shoots and hits, too. ” 

"You wished to see me, madam?” said the sena- 
tor politely. "Are you sure I am the person?” 

The stranger nodded, sitting down by the table. 
Then she raised her veil, showing him a face that 
had been handsome once, but the dark eyes were 
haggard, deep wrinkles in the forehead and the 
black hair streaked with gray. 


A REVELATION 


175 


"You do not recognize me?” she said bitterly. 

He looked at her aghast, as he muttered like a 
man in a dream, "Rose McCord!” 

"Yes, Rose McCord, a worn and faded woman, 
gray and haggard while you, the elder, are better 
looking than ever before. I recognized you the first 
day you came to McClure’s. I knew then that Sen- 
ator Brooks was the Tom Brooks of Rocky Creek." 

"Why had you not told me you were here?” said 
the senator, suavely. "I would like to have seen 
you for old acquaintance sake.” He drew a chair 
near her, assuming a friendly air. 

"I do not think you would have seen me,” she an- 
swered, coldly, "I know you would not. I waited 
till my plans matured, then I sought you out.” 

"I thought you came in remembrance of our old 
friendship,” he said, pleasantly. 

"You dwell on that. It is hateful to me,” she 
said swiftly, with an angry scowl. "Friendship, 
when you swore you loved me; you would marry 
me! Then, when you made your strike, you slunk 
off like a coward and a sneak! Bah! don’t speak; 
it is of no use.” 

"But it is of use. Rose,” he said pleasantly, tak- 
ing her hand. "I had to go. The circumstances 
were such that Curtis and I had to go away. We 
feared the papers might take up the old story of the 
Johnsons and make trouble for us.” 

"Did that prevent your writing to me?” asked 
Rose sadly. 


176 


A REVELATION 


“I drifted out into the world, Rose; I made more 
money. I had ambition; the years have gone by, 
the past is almost dead to me; men change with 
prosperity. ” 

“I know that," Rose paced restlesly up and down 
the room. There was some terrible struggle going 
on in her mind, some great problem to be solved. 
She had not waited all these years for revenge to 
play her cards badly now ; yet she was unnerved 
and excited, for she loved the man still. His friend- 
liness, his courtesy, made her waver. What if he 
cared for her yet? 

"I saw you with McClure’s adopted daughter, ’ she 
said, calmly, stopping and facing him. "Report 
says she jilted you." 

"Why make your visit hateful to me?" Brooks 
said sternly. "Did you come to taunt me?" 

"Far from it," Rose cried; "1 want to help you. 

Despise me if you will, I can’t take back what I 
gave; I love you yet and I hate myself. God, how 
I have suhered! and you sit there as far away from 
me as if the ocean were between us. Don’t try to 
talk to me. You are false and dishonest. I do not 
— will not, believe you. I came to talk to you. 
Tell me, is this Will Curtis, Henry Curtis’ son?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you hate him, the boy who defeated you, 
who laughs at you in the flush of his joy, with his 
young sweetheart, too? 

"What do you want me to say?" sneered the sen- 
ator, "You talk like a mad woman." 


A REVELATION 


177 


Do I?” she hissed. “Yet I have in my hand 
the power to break off those young lover’s happi- 
ness, to send them from each other with bitter hate 
and loathing.” 

“What do you know? ” said Brooks, hoarsely. “You 
were never given to idle talk. Rose, if there is any 
good, reason, tell me, and I will do anything for 
you. ” 

“You will not marry the girl?” 

He hesitated. 

“Listen,” said Rose, imperiously. “Years ago, 
when you and Curtis hung those Johnsons, I was ^ 
silent; when you took their land, I was silent; 
when you made your millions, I never said a word. 

All these years I have held my peace. Hate me if 
you will, turn from me in loathing, yet you shall 
know what I have given you. You shall know the 
money that made your fortune and honor was mine. 

What I sacrificed in my love for you — a love you 
spurned. You fled from me; you hid from me; you 
looked down on me. Fool! When you found that 
million, had I spoken one word, you would have 
dangled from a tree like those Johnsons. This was 
my revenge, it was a pleasant one. I let you go, I 
let you have the money, I bear your desertion that 
some day I could tell you of this. I and no other, 
knew where the child was, and who had it, and I 
went to look after it. You thought you could de- 
ceive me!” 

“What do you mean by this rigmarole?” he pant- 


120 


178 


A REVELATION 


ed. “How does this concern Jean McClure, or me? 
What right have you to talk of saving my life, giv- 
ing me my money? You are insane. I will ring 
the bell and have you sent out of the hotel.” 

“Not that,” said Rose calmly. “Hopeless as my 
love has been — hopeless perhaps my hate — but it 
shall touch you, it shall haunt you, do what you 
will, go where you will. You know that woman 
you hung? Do you remember her face?” 

“The Johnson woman,” he asked looking at Rose 
curiously, “a big dark creature.” ^ 

“Yes, she had worked in the hay fields and out of 
doors; it had made her coarse and tanned. I lived 
in fine houses, with better fare, yet. Senator Brooks 
we were own sisters, the children of the same far- 
mer parents, that woman and I ; and I could have 
claimed the land you stole from the dead.” 

Brooks looked at her in reluctant admiration. 

“I hid it from you!” went on Rose steadily, “I 
dreaded you would hate me; I see you shudder now! 
If you will never care for me you shall never love 
her. You shall know all — nothing shall stop me 
now! ” 

"Tell me all, then,” said Brooks, harshly. “Quick 
— or I will not believe you; you are not that wo- 
man’s sister. It is a lie!” 

“Would you have me to go to law to prove it? 
Would you have the story dragged into the courts? 
Shall I bring Johnson’s child up for a witness, and 
tell what you did to her, and why you hung her par- 


A REVELATION 


179 


ents? I fanc}'- then Senator Brooks would be in a 
bad way. The shame, the disgrace of it, would 
drive him out into the world a friendless wanderer 
as he was when he crossed the plains in ’59?” 

The truth of what she said struck the man. He 
had dreaded that child in an unconscious way all the 
years. He felt she would rise to torment him. He 
was superstitious; he believed there would come a 
day of reckoning. Yet as the years went on, he be- 
came indifferent to it. She must be dead, or so far 
away no chance could ever tell her the story. 

“Johnson’s child," he repeated. “Is she alive; 
does she know?" 

“You thought you had hid her from me,” said 
Rose, triumphantly. “You had no idea I was as 
shrewd as you. I found her at the home those 
Greens kept. She was taken from them, and I lost 
track of her. But I found her again after many 
years, and I know where she is to-day.” 

“Does she know?” Brooks asked quietly. 

“No; she does not, she has never heard the story. 
What will you do for me if she never does know?” 

I “I will give you money,” he said coldly. “I have 
i power and influence. You cannot fight me. It is 
I better to make terms. So many years have gone 
S the child’s claim to the mine is valueless. It would 
] never be established; it is as useless as your own.” 

! “You would give me money. ” Rose repeated ; “you 
j think I would take back what I gave you. Tom,” 

I she cried wildly, clinging to his arm with passion- 


I 


i8o 


A REVELATION 


ate force, struggling with her sobs, "for heaven’s 
sake hear me, have mercy on me. I have loved you 
for twenty years. I have suffered for you; I have 
given you fortune and fame; I have waited in tor- 
ture, in hope that was only cruel [disappointment. 

I believe you still; as I will forget everything in 
the past. Make me your wife — listen, do not draw 
away. I have studied, worked night and day! I 
am accomplished, like ladies you know in the world; 

I am not old, I am not ugly; happiness would make 
me young again. See, see; I take this hideous bon- 
net off, I look better now. I am not sad. Tom, I 
will be a good wife — a true wife. I will work for 
you, worship you, live only for you. For heaven’s 
sake, hear me — ’’ 

He tore his arm away and pushed her from him. 
She clung to his knees and groveled at his feet, 
still pleading with broken words, with hot tears. 

“Hush! I will not listen to you!” he said, striving 
to free himself. “I would not marry you if you 
were the only woman in the world. Let me go. 
You are crazy ; I knew it from the first; I will have 
you arrested. Will you never be still? Do you 
think I would stoop to you, stoop to marry Miss 
Wallace’s maid?” 

Rose started as from a trance; she staggered to 
her feet, pushing the disheveled hair from her face. 

“You call me that; you taunt me! You shall know. 
If you despise me, you shall her! You marry the 
golden-haired beauty, old McClure’s daughter? You 


^OU CALL ME that! YOU TAUNT ME ! 


1 









0 


I 

i 


A REVELATION 


l8l 


think you will yet succeed! I will let you marry her 
and then tell you — no, no, not that; you shall 
never marry! Listen!” she hissed, “Where is John- 
son’s child — where is the child of the man and 
woman you murdered? The child of the hag that 
lay drunk on the floor, and let Mary MacDonald 
freeze to death — the child of the man whose land 
you stole? You want to find her — you would buy 
her off — you think she is a low creature! Bah, you 
will break your heart for her! You are doing so 
now. You have toadied to her, followed her like a 
dog; you have danced at her beck and call. Who 
is Johnson’s child? Go to McClures’ house; ask 
him where he got that girl. Ask him who her par- 
ents were; he will not know; ask his laundress, old 
Mrs. Green — ask me who have followed her all these 
years, we will tell you where the Johnson child is — ” 

“Who— where?” panted Brooks, the veins swell- 
ing on his forehead. “Where is she? Who is she? 
Tell me, or I will have you dragged to jail as a 
thief! ” 

“You threaten? I want you to feel your happi- 
ness, taste the cup you have offered me. ' 

“Where is that child?” he repeated. 

Rose McCord caught up her bonnet and cape. 
She passed him with a mocking laugh. 

“Make your terms with me. Sir Senator, or you 
shall never know.” 

He caught her by the arm. 

“Rose, tell me,” he pleaded. “Tell me. I can 


82 


A REVELATION 


not bear this; I will do anything for you, I will, I 
swear it! Only give me my revenge on them. On 
those people who have laughed at me, the girl who 
scorned me, the man who defeated me! I will marry 
you. I swear it!” 

“What!” cried Rose. “You will? You do not 
care for her? You will care for me?” 

“I swear I will marry you if you tell me the truth. 
I must, I will know.” 

“They will fight you tooth and nail. They will 
not believe it,” said Rose swiftly; “but I have the 
proofs. I only know who the child is. You dare 
not guess it. Come to me to-morrow night. I will 
show you the proofs. Now I must go.” 

“Tell me first, I cannot endure this; tell me or I 
will follow you! I will dog your steps till I know. 

I must know. Is it ” He could not voice his 

suspicion. It was too horrible, too revolting. A 
picture of that lonely gulch and the two ghastly 
bodies swinging to and fro in the wind rose up be- 
fore him. All the terrible history of a night of 
crime came to him. Had fate punished him in this 
way, fooled him with hope and joy, tortured him 
with disappointment, and then with fearful malice 
driven a dagger through his heart? 

"You dare not think it, you dare not breathe it: 
you are sick — heart sick,’’ hissed Rose McCord. 
“You would not have it so. You would tear a 
memory from your heart; but something tells you, 
something stronger than my voice, or my proofs. 


A REVELATION 


183 


It is an accusing remembrance you know that you 
have loved and would have married the daughter of 
that murdered man — Jean McClure!” 

She slammed the door behind her but Brooks 
neither heard nor heeded. 

"Oh my God!” he cried. “Time has wrought its 
own punishment, the worst revenge of all, for I love 
her, I love her I” 


CHAPTER XIV 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 

Jean in her new happiness had neglected her friend 
and neighbor, Miss Wallace; but one afternoon, 
a few days after Rose McCord’s visit to the Senator, 
she went over to the old house. Well-meaning peo- 
ple had considered it their duty to tell Mrs. Mc- 
Clure Miss Wallace’s history. Of course, then, if 
she would go there and take her young daughter, 
too, it was her own affair. Mrs. Collins told her 
the facts from her knowledge that day of the din- 
ner party. Mrs. Collins was a great lady now, living 
in a fine house on Capitol Hill, driving in acoupd, 
and wearing so many diamonds that she rivalled a 
jeweler’s display window. 

Mrs. McClure listened politely, but paid no heed. 
She did not believe the stories; she felt in her 
kind heart there was some mystery, and her tender 
pity and sympathy went out to lonely Virginia 
Wallace. If she loved Jean, Jean should go there 
and make her sad life brighter. 

Miss Wallace was like a beautiful picture to Jean. 
She was always sad yet lovely in voice and face, 
and sweet and generous. Jean knew her charities; 

184 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


i«5 


she had shared in them, and the two visited the poor 
together. Jean had seen many a suffering face light 
up with joy and peace when Miss Wallace came to 
the bedside. Romantic and soft-hearted, as all 
sweet girls are, she tried in her affectionate way to 
make Miss Wallace happier. 

"You have deserted me a long, long time," said 
Miss Wallace resting her thin hand on the golden 
head. Jean had drawn a low stool up to the chair 
by the window, and was sitting at Miss Wallace's 
feet, while Dick lay beside her, feeling it his duty 
to be a faithful attendant. "I think, though, you are 
not to blame; some one else takes all your time. 
Dick could tell who, for he seems always to make 
a silent third." 

Jean blushed, and she laughed. 

"You know it without my telling; you have 
guessed something.” 

"I would be a blind old woman if I had not," 
said Miss Wallace, tenderly; "I used to fear it 
would be the senator, but I saw the young man 
come; I knew whom he loved, pretty soon I knew 
who loved him. Your father and mother were will- 
ing, were they not?” she went on with a strange 
sadness in her beautiful eyes; "you had no opposi- 
tion?” 

"No, indeed; Father McClure, I know, liked Will 
the best, and so did mother and Miss Franklin. 
You never knew how I met Will?” Jean told her 
love story then. Miss Wallace listening with sym- 
pathetic interest. 


i86 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


"And you wiM be married soon?" she asked ea- 
gerly. 

"I do not know,” said Jean. "It rests with father; 
Will and I are so young we can wait; then I fear 
his father will object, and — ” 

"Do not let that break your heart. Do not let 
him separate you,” cried Miss Wallace bitterly. 
"Cling to your lover; do not let anything, any one 
mar your happiness. Jean, Jean, all my sad life I 
owe to a father’s cruelty. I should not say it, for 
he is dead — they are all dead,” she moaned pacing 
the floor. "You have never seen me like this; you 
look frightened, Jean. Ah, your story, your young 
lover, your happiness brings back the buried past, 
I have locked in my breast for twenty years.” 

"Dear Miss Wallace,” said Jean, her eyes wet, 
too, "I felt there was something in your life like 
that. If I could only comfort you. Ah, I pray it 
will not happen to me; but sometimes I feel so 
strangely, such presentiments! It seems as if I 
were too happy, then I dream of a terrible past, 
of the days before the McClures took me; such an 
unhappy child I was. I told you of that dreadful 
home, those people, how I stole and fought, and 
they called me an imp of Satan. I look at myself 
in the glass and I wonder if I can be the same sad, 
miserable little child. When Will tells me how 
much he loves me and all the sweet praises he gives 
me, I feel like telling him the story of my life 
then; but I can not; I fear that he will love me 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


187 


less; then,” she said with a shudder, "I seem to go 
awaj^ away, back, to a wild confused dream— Ah, 
if I knew whether it were dream or reality! I see 
a child’s face, thin and haggard — a horrible man 
and an awful mob. Oh, I cannot s.peak of it, think 
of it!” cried Jean, bursting into wild tears. 

Then Miss Wallace petted and comforted her, 
forgetting her own sorrows. 

‘‘Now, Jean,” she said, ‘‘we will not let such 
topics ever come up again. Why you are all in 
white like a bride; how pretty that soft cashmere and 
swan’s-down is — like a snow-flake. You always wear 
such dainty gowns — pinks or blues or white. You 
never wear black. I hope you never will. All you 
need with that pretty dress is this — ” she took from 
an ivory, satin-lined case a necklace of beautiful 
pearls, and put it around the girPsneck. 

‘‘Oh, I never could take them,” cried Jean. ‘‘They 
are priceless. 

"They were my mother’s— I have never worn 
them,” said Miss Wallace, with a shiver.” I could 
not, but you can wear them. She was fair and 
sweet, and had golden hair like yours. You remem- 
ber the picture of her in the green brocade down 
stairs? She has these pearls twined in her hair. 
They say pearls are tears — I do not believe it — I 
would not give you tears. Do not take them off. 
You will not refuse a sad, lonely woman this pleas- 
ure. Who will get my things when I am gone? I 
do not know; but while I live they shall give me 


i88 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


happiness and make others happy. See, Jean, here 
comes your young lover; let him see how pretty you 
look. ” 

Jean called Will over and introduced him. They 
went into the quaint parlor, where Jean sang for 
them her father’s favorite song. Then old Sam an- 
nounced tea, they sent word over to Mrs. McClure 
and stayed with Miss Wallace. Will was almost 
jealous, Jean loved the lady so; but he fell in love 
with her himself, after Jean’s fashion, and it was 
ten o’clock before they knew it. 

"Will,” whispered Jean, as they walked home 
across the lawn, "I do think I am the happiest girl 
in the world, everybody is so kind and everybody 
seems to love me.” 

“As if they could help it, Jean,” said Will, mak- 
ing his words emphatic by expected tokens of es- 
teem, 

"Jean, the senator has witten me a note,” said 
old McClure anxiously, as he kissed her good- 
night. "He wants an interview with you the night 
after to-morrow. He wants j'ou to be at home, as 
it is important. What on earth can he mean?” 

"Only to bid me good-bye,” Jean replied, care- 
lessly. "He might have spared himself, for, father 
mine, you will not believe your Jean is so ugly and 
savage, but, really, I do— do hate the senator?” 

"Fie, Jean — hate. That is a strong word for a 
lady.” 

"There is no other name that I have for my feel- 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 1 89 

ing for him,” said Jean, firmly, “unless I say dis- 
trust and dread. ” 

The night that Rose McCord told him the story 
of Jean’s parentage, the Senator sent the following 
note to New York : 

Dear Curtis: — Contrary to your expectations I 
have been unable to check your son. Will is en- 
gaged to McClure’s adopted daughter. The Mc- 
Clures favor it. Of course my telling McClure that 
Will was engaged to Whitney’s daughter was of no 
avail. He is anxious to get the girl married. I 
have found out why. He wants her off his hands 
before the world finds out who she is. She is John- 
son’s daughter, the child we found in the log cabin. 
Time brings strange retribution. You would hardly 
in view of the past, wish to call her your daughter- 
in-law. I leave the facts with you. I reiterate, I 
can do nothing. Regards to all. Brooks. 

The letter went its way, and was delivered by 
the postman at a fine house in a fashionable locality 
in New York. The master of the house did not 
come home until late; then he went to his wife’s 
room. They were going to a party that night, and 
she was already attired in a brocade and priceless 
lace, with (as she often told her friends) ninety 
thousand dollars worth of diamonds on." She was 
a large, fair woman, plump to prettiness, with baby- 
ish blue eyes, rosebud mouth, and complexion that 
defied the ravages of time, a soft pink and white 
needing neither rouge or powder. She was consid- 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


190 

ered one of the handsomest women in New York, 
and had had her portrait painted till she must have 
been vain if she had never known vanity. She 
had posed in tableaux, as some famous beauty, and 
her photographs were eagerly sought. She was, 
however, with all her wealth and beauty, the kind- 
est woman in the world, lavish and generous to a 
fault and a good mother. In her dressing-room 
now, at a time when other women would have been 
annoyed and distracted, she had all her family. 
Maud, a sallow, dark girl, was looking at her moth- 
er’s jewels, Bertha and Belle, the blonde twins, 
were trying her gloves on their skinny hands, and 
young Henry Curtis, of four years, ate chocolate 
creams out of a silver bon-bon box on the table, 
and was a fine mess of stickiness and sweetness. 

"I never did see sich young ’uns, ” said Mrs. Cur- 
tis good humoredly to her French maid; “Nina, do 
send ’em out; I’ll never git fixed in the world. 
For pity’s sake, Henry, do put down that candy; 
you’ll be sick.” 

“Wun’t,” said Henry, composedly, just then he 
heard his father’s step, so he slid off the table and 
out of the room, carrying a load of candy. The 
twins followed, and Maud, with an ill-natured air, 
dropping the jewelry on the table, slowly left the 
- room. 

“Monsieur makes <he children behave!” said the 
maid, with an air of relief. 

“They’re scared of him. I wi-sh they was' of me,” 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


I9I 

smiled Madam. "Ah, Henry, I was afraid you was 
goin’ to be late," as a dark gentleman, elegant in 
dress and appearance, came in. "There is a Denver 
letter for you; I brought it up." 

"You may go^, Nina," said Curtis, taking up the 
letter. He looked at the envelope with a strange 
smile. 

Time had dealt gently with Henry Curtis. He 
was a little stouter, a little grayer, that was all; 
but his evil smile was the same, though it was sel- 
dom seen nowadays. He was a deacon in a fashion- 
able church, member of fashionable clubs, had a 
fashionable wife, gave elegant parties and was liked 
in society. He had a family of nice children, a fine 
home, and he loved his wife still. 

"Senator Brooks," he repeated. "He owes it all 
to me; he was ignorant enough once." 

"He’s an illegant gentleman now," said Mrs. 
Curtis. 

"Ellegant, Sarah," corrected her husband compos- 
edly, cutting open the envelope. "You had better 
drop that word from your vocabulary; it seems too 
much for you, though you’re beautiful enough to be 
forgiven mistakes." 

"Do you like my dress?" 

"Lovely," he said, opening the letter. He read 
it through twice. His wife watched his face anx- 
iously. She saw a shade almost of horror creep 
over it. He held the letter to her. "Is there any 
brandy here?" he asked, hoarsely. 


192 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


She pointed to the closet. He drank a large 
glassful, wet his handkerchief in the cologne on the 
bureau, and buried his face in it. 

"God! how sick I am,” he muttered. "Isn^t it 
horrible? Those people’s child— my son!” 

"What shall we do?” asked his wife, trembling. 
"Why, Henry, you’re sick; I never saw you so 
pale, ’cept that day we struck it rich in the Gulch. 
How can we help it?” 

"Help it! Will shall never marry her,” cried 
Curtis fiercely. "There is no party for us to-night, 
Sal. We’ll start for Denver. The newspaper— is 
there any train? No, not till morning. Well, pack 
up your things, take off your fine dress; we’ll start 
at six in the morning, and you shall go with me. I 
could not bear to go back there alone.” 

"Much as I hate the place, I’d go back sooner 
than you should go alone,” said his wife lovingly, 
"and — and, Henry there can’t be no one there that 
knowed me in the old days.” 

He understood, and pitied her; yet, after all, 
whose past was the worst to face, his or hers? He 
hated his son for the trouble and annoyance he had 
brought on him, sa^dng under his breath he would 
find out to his cost if he dared to disobey. 

Early in the morning they started. In four days 
they were in Denver. Here they registered under an 
assumed name at a hotel. Curtis felt his son would 
have fled had he known of his coming. Here he 
found out McClure’s adopted daughter was ignorant 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


193 


of her parentage and all the horrible story of Des- 
peration gulch. The laundress at McClure’s was 
the Mrs. Green of the home where Brooks had 
brought the child. 

"It’s a pity," said Curtis, when the Senator told 
him all, "that we hadn’t got rid of her that day." 

Just then Mrs. Curtis joined them at the window 
and they saw coming up the street a fine, thorough- 
bred bay horse and his rider, a pretty girl in a blue 
habit carrying herself proudly, managing her horse 
with courage and skill. A colored groom followed 
her and a brown dog trotted along beside the horse. 

"What a sweet girl, so English! Who is she?" 
said Mrs. Curtis, enthusiastically. 

"That," answered the senator, "is the child of 
the Johnsons of Desperation Gulch, Jean McClure." 

"What a metamorphosis!" Curtis exclaimed, and 
they were all silent, as the girl rode by. 

This was in the morning of the day the senator 
had written he would like an interview 'with Miss 
McClure. In the afternoon after the two gentlemen 
had gone, Mrs. Curtis ordered a carriage and drove 
away in great trepidation. When she was some dis- 
tant from the hotel she ordered the driver to drive 
to the house of Alexander McClure, at Highland, 
and when there she asked for Miss Jean. She had 
a card, she would detain the lady but a few min- 
utes. Jean was at home and answered the summons. 
She came shyly into the grand parlor, so sweet and 
girlish. Mrs. Curtis felt her courage fail. Yet 

13D 


194 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


after all, she had come on an errand of mercy. She 
hoped to break up the match with Will, then the 
pretty girl need never know the disgrace of her 
parents. Sal’s heart was the kindest; she dared 
her husband’s wrath — for the first time in her life 
she deceived him — all to protect from a dreadful 
sorrow a girl she did not know and had no reason 
to care for. 

“Miss McClure,” said Sal, “I know you by sight. 
I am Mrs. Henry Curtis, Will’s step mother.” 

Jean started with a little cry. 

“Now please don’t make no scene,” said the 
visitor, putting out a pretty gloved hand. “Sit 
down on the sofa ’side of me; I’ve the best feelins 
in the world towards you. I ran off to-day from 
my husband and the senator just to spare you, to 
help you.” 

"To help me?” stammered Jean, sinking on the 
sofa beside the lady who was gorgeous in a fawn- 
colored silk, resplendent with diamonds, a gaudy, 
vulgar woman, with a kind face. 

“I daren’t tell but a little, ” said Sal hurriedly, 
“dear me how white you are. You don’t faint 
and make them all come in an’ find me here.” 

“No, 110,” cried Jean; "you startled me, that was 
all. I will be quiet. See, I am calmer now. His 
father is here then?” 

“Yes, at the hotel; him an’ the senator was corn- 
in’ to-night. I got the start on ’em. I see you 
this mornin’. You looked so pretty an’ good. I 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


195 


was heart-sick at what they might do — an’ all — but 
dear me, I’m wanderin’ way off, an’ time so pre- 
cious. You’re engaged to our Will, Miss McClure?” 

“Yes,” said Jean faintly. 

"You love him — there, I knowed you did. Miss 
Whitney — belle of New York, and awful fashionable 
— was just dyin’ for him. Of course, he’d have 
married her but for you, — well, there. I don’t 
blame Will a mite; but it will never do, his father 
will never consent. It ain’t because of ennythin’ 
you done, but what happened long ago, and wasn’t 
your fault at all. ’’ 

"What do you mean?” cried Jean — "something 
that happened long ago? Is it about my childhood, 
my people? Does your husband know?” 

"He knows all about you; it’s a horrible story. 
He would rather see Will in his coffin than married 
to you.” 

"In his coffin," repeated Jean. "Ah, Mrs. Curtis, 
does— does Mr. McClure know, and his dear wife 
whom I call mother?” 

"Of course they does," went on the woman im- 
petuously; "he’s just dying to have you well mar- 
ried off ’fore the world finds it out. S’ciety is 
awful perticuler; it has to be, you know; and it 
would ruin Will’s prospects in life. It is such an 
awful thing!" 

"For heaven’s sake, tell me,” cried Jean, sinking 
on her knees beside Mrs. Curtis, tell me what it 
is! How can I bear it? Some shame, disgrace of 


196 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


my own parents, and I ignorant all others knowing, 
and they too — and they would wish me married! 
They despise me, and Will — does he know?" 

"Of course not,” said Mrs. Curtis, almost brutal 
in her effort to help the girl; "he would not want 
to marry you if he did; he’d— he’d loathe you.” 

"Loathe me?” gasped Jean. "Ah, you cannot 
mean that.” 

"I do, I do,” sobbed Mrs. Curtis, the tears run- 
ning down her cheeks. "You poor, poor child! He 
never would marry you. Tell him you won’t have 
him; write him a note, or something — then he will 
go away and won’t see you again, and Henry — Mr. 
Curtis, I mean — will go back home; and me and 
the senator, too, who feels awful about it.” 

"Oh, he knows, too,” said Jean, suspiciously. 

"Yes; but only lately, an’ he’s not to blame like 
Henry, an’ it was so dreadful. Oh, dear,” putting 
out a tiny jeweled watch, "it is five o’clock. I must 
go back; they will miss me. Henry will hunt me 
up. He will never forgive me. I pray you. Miss 
McClure — I’d beg you to free Will, an’ I swear to 
you, whatever happens, he shan’t know.” 

"You will never tell him?” said Jean, a new light 
in her eyes. "You will not let him despise me?" 

"I swear it.” 

"Then I will write anything, do anything," said 
Jean. "Here is my desk; now tell me what to say. ” 

"I don’t know; indeed, I don’t,” went on Mrs. 
Curtis distractedly. "Tell him you like somebody 
else. " 


A HASTY JOURNEY WEST 


197 


“He knows I do not.” 

“Tell him then he is poor; that you find you 
want money; something like that.” 

Jean wrote a few moments. “Will this do?” she 
said calmly reading the note. 

Dear Friend: — Do not be angry but I cannot 
marry you. I hear your father will disinherit you. I 
would not wish you to be a burden on my foster 
parents nor do I wish to be poor and wretched in the 
poverty we would have to bear. You will under- 
stand this is final. Jran McClure. 

“It reads like a book. Give it to me, “said Mrs. 
Curtis," I’ll leave it where he boards. Address the 
envelope. That’s right; you’re a brave girl. I like 
you, an’ I hope you’ll git over it soon. These things 
never kills. Good bye.” 

She kissed Jean’s cheek, hurrying out. Jean heard 
the hall door slam and the carriage roll away. She 
sat in a dull, unconscious state, her head on her 
outstretched arms. By and by soft footsteps pat- 
tered over the carpet and a cold nose touched her 
face. 

“Dicky, Dicky!” she cried, bursting into bitter 
tears. “You are all that’s left me. You are the 
only one who won’t despise me when they know. 
Oh my heart will break!” 

She slipped down to the floor beside the dog 
hiding her face in his silky coat. The afternoon 
faded into the night that would bring her the end 
of her happy girlhood. 


CHAPTER XV 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 

"Will you do something for my sake?" said Mrs. 
Curtis, on the night of her visit to Jean McCluTe. 
"It is seldom 1 ever like a stranger, but I have 
taken a fancy to that pretty girl. Put off the visit 
to Jean McClure till you have seen Will." 

The worthy creature hoped Will would take 
Jean’s note as final, and be willing to give her up. 
The senator, always willing to oblige, thought it 
would be a good plan to put off the visit until an- 
other night; he would send a servant over to tell 
Mr. McClure he would not keep the engagement. 
The senator dreaded the interview; yet he knew 
that it was his only chance. He was aware the 
McClures did not know who Jean’s parents were, 
and he thought naturally it must make a difference 
when they found out. Will would turn from her, 
she would turn from Will, and he (the "senator) 
would be the faithful friend. Just as they were de- 
bating this question there came rapid steps through 
the hall and a hurried knock at the door. The 
senator opened it, and to the surprise of all Will 
Curtis walked in. He stopped in astonishment at 
seeing his father and mother. ' 

• 198 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


199 


“I might have known you were here,” he ex- 
claimed, bitterly. 

"You have caused us trouble and anxiety,” said 
his father coldly. "You have forced us to make 
this journey to break off your engagement.' We 
came here to prevent your marriage, to clear you 
from the snare those McClures laid for you.” 

“You were thoughtful, ” Will sneered. "Have you 
considered that I am past twentj^-one, therefore, you 
have no hold on me? I got a blotted, hurried note 
from her to-day. I knew she did not mean one 
word of it; the sentiments were repulsive to her. 
I thought Brooks had been trying to break our en- 
gagement because Jean would not have him; it was 
you, then.” 

“I have had no communication with Miss McClure 
at all,” said his father; "but I will have. Even if 
I had overlooked the fact sir, that you were as 
good as engaged to Miss Whitney, I could not let 
this marriage take place. McClure knows why he 
wants the girl married soon. She may know, her- 
self, but you shall know who she is, who her par- 
ents were; then you will understand why I will 
prevent this marriage to the extent of my ability. 

"Do you think a fo^ol story you and Brooks might 
invent would influence me?” said Will hotly. 

"Well, McClure was willing and eager you should 
marry the girl,” suggested the senator mildly. 

"You are not concerned in this,” cried Will. 
"Mind your own affairs. I can — ” 


200 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


“Will, Will!” said Mr. Curtis, hurriedly; “pray 
don’t, pray be still; do not say things you’ll be 
sorry for. We mean all this for your own good. 
It would ruin you to marry her.” 

“Hear my story, ” continued Henry Curtis. “Will, 
you have sense enough to judge for yourself. You 
will know then why this marriage is impossible — 
horrible — against all reason. Let me tell you wlio 
her parents were — ” 

“Never,” cried Will. “I will not hear one word. 
Whatever her parents were, Jean is Jean — the 
purest, best of women; I will not listen to you; I 
will go to her father — we will be married to-night — 
I defy you, sir!” 

“You are well fixed for marriage, ” said his father 
angrily; “a beggar, or a dependant on McClure’s 
bounty. You may be marrying the girl to be sup- 
ported. ” 

“My own mother^ s father will help me,” cried 
Will, “the father of the woman you killed, after 
you broke her heart, and dragged her down in your 
wanderings until she died. My grandfather will 
welcome me. I have not even a look of you; thank 
God I never cared for you.” 

“Had I hate for you,” said Henry Curtis, stead- 
ily, “you should marry the girl; but you are my 
son ; even if you turn against me, I cannot despise 
you.” 

“Hypocrite and trickster!” shouted Will. “I hold 
your threats as idle as your kindness. My grand- 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


201 


father is a gentleman; I will talk to him, but I 
never will to you. I don’t care what you say, what 
you do. Here is the last check you gave me; take 
it; send me no more; we are quits from this mo- 
ment." The excited lad seized his hat. Mrs. Cur- 
tis ran to him. 

"Oh, Will," she sobbed, "don’t go to her; it will 
be her ruin. She does not know — it will break her 
heart — " 

"Hush, Sal," interposed her husband, "let the 
mad fool go!" 

Will dashed out. 

"Follow him I " cried the senator hoarsely. "Quick, 
there’s not a moment to lose!" 

The two men rushed out, while the woman fell 
into a chair in a passion of helpless tears. 

"What will you do?" whispered the senator, as 
their carriage whirled through the streets. 

"Tell the whole story," hissed Curtis. 

"For God’s sake, leave me out, I cannot defend 
myself. I know not whether it be fate or retribu- 
tion. I can not conquer it — it is my life — my only 
hope— I love Jean McClure!" 

"Impossible," muttered Curtis. "I pity you; I’ll 
keep your secret. Where is the place? There?" 

'Will had the start of them. He was on horse- 
back, and he rode through the town like a madman. 
He dashed up to the house, and burst into the 
library where the family were sitting. He saw 
Jean pale and sad, in a low chair at McClure’s 


202 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


feet. The tears came into the lad’s* wild eyes. 

"Mr. McClure,” he cried hurriedly, "there is some 
vile scheme — my father — Brooks. They have tried 
to separate Jean and me. They made her write me 
a letter. She did not mean a word of it. She could 
not stoop so low. They’ve told me there is some 
story of her parents — they’ve trumped up a lie. I 
would not hear it — I will never believe it. What 
of it? Jean is mine; she loves me; I love her; 
what can all the world do to that? How can they 
separate us? You gave her to me; you shall not 
take her back.” 

Jean sprang up, pale and trembling, old McClure 
put his arm about her. 

"Be brave, dear,” he said fondly. "My bonnie 
Jean. Sik stories canna’ wrang ye. Will, take her. 
She loves ye. She will not go to you? Jean, Jean,” 
the old man went on brokenly. "What has come 
over you? Have they frightened you?” 

"Oh, it will hurt him, disgrace him,” sobbed 
Jean. "Send him away, father; they said it would 
mar his whole life !” 

"They lie!” shouted Will, seizing her hands. 
"Jean, marry me now. Let him send for a minis- 
ter. Then let my father come here or dare to speak 
your name!” 

"What is the story? Do you know, Jean? ” asked 
McClure, sternly. 

"I do not; she— she would not tell me. No, no, 
Will; I must not, I cannot marry you. Oh, go 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


203 


away; leave me with my dear father. But she said 
you knew, Father McClure, she said you knew and 
despised me!” 

‘‘A lie! ” roared McClure, “whoever she was. Tell 
me who, Jean, I’ll go to her. I’ll drag the lie out 
of her; what damned villainy is this?” 

“My own Jeannie, ” Mrs. McClure sobbed, "just 
let any one dare to talk to me of you. I’ll tear their 
heart out.’ 

“Let them speak a word to me,” chimed in Miss 
Franklin with the air of a tragedy queen; “let them 
dare, the slanderers!” 

At that moment the hall door -bell rang, and a 
man’s voice demanded to be shown in. The old 
butler refused, while McClure rushed into the hall. 

“Go back, you devils! ’ he shouted. “Go back 
where you came from. Don’t dare me in my own 
house or I can’t keep my hands off ye; I was good 
at fighting once. I’m a match for both of ye.” 

"We will be heard,” said Curtis. “Mr. McClure, 
you don’t want this to go into the courts. My son 
shall know who the girl is, who her parents were. 
I tell you it is a crime, a horror for him to marry 
her. Look at the servants, the men oustide! For 
heaven’s sake, don’t make a scene. Listen to rea- 
son.” 

Jean pale but very calm came out in the^ hall. 

“Father,” she said gently, “they must come in. 
They shall say what they have to say. It is my 
right to hear them. Come in.” 


204 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


"ril not hear them,” said McClure. 

"Nor me,” cried Biddy. "The idea of ’em com- 
ing in — Jean, you shan’t hear ’em.” 

“I beg you will hear it all,” Jean pleaded. They 
were in the library. She closed the door and stood 
with her back against it, the dark oak a background 
for her still, white face. The tears of a few mo- 
ments ago were gone — all the agitation — but her 
calm was more dreadful than a tempest. 

Mr. McClure was beside his weeping wife on the 
sofa. Miss Franklin sat very stately, looking over 
the heads of the two visitors. Will stood by the 
fire-place. 

"Sit down, please,” said Jean, pointing to chairs. 
'T wonder Senator Brooks comes here; what right 
has he* in an affair that concerns your son and me?” 

Curtis turned and looked at the brave girl. For 
the first time she saw him face to face. She gave 
a little cry, and pushed her hand over her forehead 
gazing at him like a bird fascinated by a snake. 

“Senator Brooks is witness of what I have to 
say," said Curtis shortly; then he turned to Mc- 
Clure. "I understood you knew this girl’s parent- 
age? ” 

“1 did not nor don’t want to know it,” answered 
McClure stiffly. 

“I am forced to believe j^ou, ” went on Curtis. 
“Suppose we go back, then, to a time when j^ou 
took a child called Jane from a place known as 
‘Paradise on Earth?’ 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


205 


"Ah, that place, that name!" murmured Jean. 
"Now 1 remember it. The name never would come 
to me.” 

"As you remember that," said Curtis contemptu- 
ously, "suppose you ring the bell for the laundress 
to come here. There may be some one else you 
will remember." 

"I protest against this!" cried Will; "it is heart- 
less and brutal!" 

"Will, you are only adding to my torture," said 
Jean firmly. "Mr. Curtis has a right to introduce 
any witness he wishes. I would rather there were 
more proofs than his unsupported word.” 

Curtis winced; he already hated the girl in her 
defiant calmness. He would humble her yet. 

When the old butler came, Jean sent him to call 
the laundress. There was silence till she came. 
She entered the room with a righteous air and a 
severely virtuous look — Mrs. Green, weazened and 
wrinkled, with beady, black eyes. She had on a 
black dress and an aggressive looking bonnet and 
v/as ready to depart the moment the interview was 
over. She had been well paid. 

Jean stepped aside to allow the woman to enter; 
she looked at her curiously, then with a start of 
recognition. 

"Who are you?" asked McClure. 

"Mebbe yew don’t know me," said Mrs. Green, 
sourly; "but your woman does, wot told me a false 
name, an’ Jane here I’ll be bound do." 


2o6 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


"Be respectful, or Til pitch you out of the win- 
dow,” cried Will. 

"Them two gintsMl purtect me, young whipper- 
snapper,” smirked Mrs. Green. "I relies on them.” 

"Will, do not interrupt her,” said Jean taking 
her old place at the door. "I know you, Mrs. 
Green. You used to beat me, and you and a dread- 
ful man used to chain poor old men and women in 
a bare, cold room, then so many children died, and 
you buried them in the yard. Your witness, Mr. 
Curtis, is worthy of you. Pray proceed.” 

”She’s a brave one,” whispered McClure; "I 
thought she would wilt like a crushed flower, but 
she holds her head up like a bud just opened. She 
is a bud blooming into a rose, and a noble, beauti- 
ful one.” 

"’Tisn’t nateral, ” mourned Biddy. "Her pretty 
eyes is so glossy, and there* s such a rigid look on 
her face, oh dear, it’ll kill her!” 

"Mrs Mc.Clure, ” said Curtis, "is this the woman 
who kept the Home?” 

"It is the old murderer!” cried Biddy; "and her 
in my house, too, like a viper!” 

"Is she the woman Mr. McClure?” continued 
Curtis, calmly. 

"You know she is,” he said shortly. 

"Well, then, tell your story — in few words, Mrs. 
Green, if you please,” said Curtis, with his evil smile. 

"One night in September, 1868, a man rode up to 
my place,” said Mrs. Green deliberately; "he brought 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


207 


this child — it was four years old — named Jane, he 
sed, ’n give me twenty dollars. I dunno the man. 
I never see him agin. We kept the brat four year, 
’n she was a wicious one — tried ter kill me with a 
knife onct — ” 

“I wish she had," muttered Will, "or that you 
had been hung, as you deserved." 

‘‘Wicious, indeed,” said Mrs. Green, sucking in 
her lips apparently unconscious of the interruption, 
‘‘wicious, indeed; ’n lied ^n stole; I was glad to 
get rid of her. A woman called onct ter know 
’bout her; that was all the notis as was took in 
four year. Then two critters come at night ’n 
wanted ter adopt a child. Give the name o’ Raf- 
ferty, which was a lie. We was glad ter be red of 
Jane, ’n we let her go with ’em. They went off 
that night, tollin’ us they was goin’ East, but we 
arterwards found out their names was McClure, ’n 
they went up to Coyote Gulch. " 

"This is all you know about the child?” Curtis 
asked, hastil}^ for every vein in McClure’s forehead 
was standing out. 

"All, ’cept this,” said Mrs. Green, handing Cur- 
tis a handkerchief. "This was around the child’s 
hed when she come — there’s- a name wrote in the 
corner. " 

■"Has she finished?" broke in McClure. 

"Quite through, unless you would wish to ques- 
tion her,” said Curtis. 

"H'sre, John!" yelled McClure, rushing to the 


2o8 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


hall. ' Bundle this hag off the premises. If you 
ever see her again here have the police drag her to 
jail. She’s an old thief and a liar— that Green 
woman who murdered all the folks in that home 
here." 

Mrs. Green walked out calmly. 

"Don’t trouble yerself old McClure— Rafferty," 
she said, with an airy toss of her head. "Me trunks 
is gone yesterday,’ ’n there’s a hack outside for 
me, an’ a perlice ordered by these^gints to purtect 
me. Wish yer joy of yey gallus bird’s brat." 

The rest of her speech was lost, for Jean closed 
the door. 

"1 have called but three witnesses this evening,” 
said Curtis, when McClure had panted back to his 
place. ’T thought you would wish to avoid noto- 
riety; but I have the names of several others to 
whom you can apply to-morrow. My other witness, " 
he went on, looking at his watch, "will be herein 
a few moment^; till she comes I will tell you a 
little story." 

"We will see the witness first,” said Jean coolly. 

The senator looked at her then for the first time. 
How beautiful she was; the pallor of her face, the 
strange brilliancy of her eyes gave her an unearthly 
loveliness. He sighed involuntarily; there were 
iron hands clutching at liis heart; his brain was on 
fire. The misery she suffered he suffered; added 
to this was a mad hope he might win her, and a 
sickening sense of the utter folly of that hope. His 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


209 


✓ 

fate depended on this story. A soft step sounded 
in the hall, and Rose McCord, calm and dignified, 
walked into the room. 

"Miss W^all ace’s maid!" ejaculated Miss Frank- 
lin. Rose heard, her great black eyes flashed a 
look of hate, but she conquered her passion quickly 
as it came. She stood near Jean and the Senator 
saw the two together for the first time. How pure 
and delicate Jean was, like a lily, while Rose was 
coarse-featured and massive, a tropical plant pois- 
onous as a rattlesnake. 

"You are known by these people?" Curtis asked 
her. Rose bowed slightly. 

"Miss Wallace will give you a good character?" 
An angry red flamed over Rose’s face as she bowed 
again, 

"Very well," went on Curtis. "Did you know a 
family of Johnsons who came here early in the six- 
ties? " 

"I did," said Rose quietly. "I met them often." 

"Did you know a man named MacDonald who 
had a child Mary?” 

"I knew him slightly; he was a grave-digger and 
drove the hearse used here in those days. The 
child I saw often, a pitiful little creature." 

"Did the Johnsons have any children?" 

"One, a girl, three years old when they came to 
Denver — called Jane.” 

Curtis looked at the McClures— at Jean. Their 
faces had not changed from an expression of curi- 
UD 


210 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


osityand intentness. Evidently they did not know. 

“You could, I suppose, bring persons who knew 
these Johnsons and their child?” 

“A number,” said Rose, looking with* some won- 
der at the calm people who listened to her. "There 
were some men -wagon drivers — ” (involuntarily as 
she said these words her eyes went to the senator, 
who blushed and looked away), "also some women 
now living in Denver.” 

“Did you see the child at Mrs. Green’s?” said 
Curtis. 

"I did once; I went there with some delicacies 
for the sick. I inquired for a child answering to the 
description of the Johnson’s. I knew they were 
dead and I thought she might be there. She was; 
I saw her, I recognized her.” 

"1 remember a dark lady in black who had brace- 
lets on, "said Jean quietly; "I had never seen them 
before; they made an impression on my mind.” 

"The child was eight years old when I saw her,” 
Rose went on hurriedly. “I do not know what 
called my attention to her, or what made me re- 
member the Johnsons; but I wanted to see if the 
child was alive; that was all.” 

"Does this young woman resemble the child Jane? ” 
asked Curtis. 

"Exactly; I remembered the eyes from the first 
time I saw her, "said Rose impassively; "they were 
large, of a violet shade, with long, dark lashes, 
rather noticeable, I think,” 


JEAM HEARS HER HISTORY 


2II 


"Did these Johnsons you knew take the child of 
MacDonald?" said Curtis. McClure started up 
looking at Rose excitedly. 

"They did,” she answered; "MacDonald gave her 
to them, and they went to a place twenty miles 
from Denver, called Desperation Gulch.” 

McClure went to the table and drank a glass of 
water. Then he returned to his wife, who was 
staring at Rose McCord with white, horrified face. 
Miss Franklin and the two young people alone were 
unmoved. 

"Will this satisfy you?" said Curtis. 

"Yes, yes, no more,” muttered McClure, in a dazed, 
helpless way. 

"I hope you will not think hardly of me," Rose 
appealed; "I had to come.” 

"Go, woman, go," he said, brokenly. When she 
was gone he turned to Curtis: "I have heard enough, 
Mr. Curtis, I fear, I understand you. Sir, your son 
is free. He shall never see Jean again, I will take 
her to a foreign land; he shall never find her. Tell 
them for me, Biddy, "said the old man sinking into 
a chair, covering his face with his hands. "Promise 
them anything, everything. Make them go! ” 

"Ah, yes,” cried Biddy, going up to Curtis; "you 
havenH the heart to say no more. See, my sweet 
girl there — that pitiful face — Jeannie — Jeannie, 
3’'ou^re our own, own darlin’ still. We loves you 
better nor it all. Go now, you men, an’ you, young 
Will; it can’t never be; never think of Jean no 


212 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


more; don’t break her heart by lovin^ her now; see 
what it’s brought on her! Oh, my Jeanie, girl, 
we’ll go away from this country, and never come 
back, you’ll be happy again in time. Go, ye men, 
now; you’ve got what you come for. If you’ve the 
hearts even of bad men, you’d not kill that child 
with your story.” 

‘‘I have no wish to say anything more," said Cur- 
tis coldly. "You see it is impossible for my son to 
marry that girl." 

"Sure, I’d ruther she’d die than see enny of your 
faces again,” Biddy cried warmly. "It’s hard on 
young Will for he’s an honest lad, an’ not like you 
at all; but he’s of your blood — your son — and the 
sorror — God pity him it has got to fall on him, too." 

"Wait, mother," said Jean, firmly; "you forget 
me. There is something you and father know; Miss 
Franklin and Fare ignorant. I would be happy if 
my dear Will never knew; but I will not sail under 
false colors again. If there is sin or shame in my 
birth, let me know it! Whatever my parents were, 
I am their child. They are dead and defamed; they 
shall have a protector in me. These gentlemen have 
opened your eyes by mere mention of people’s 
names; you are horror-stricken — I demand to know 
why? The world will tell me some day, cruelly and 
without mercy. You are here dear father — mother 
— aunt — people who have made my life so happy. 
You will comfort me, pity me. You know it was 
no fault of mme what my parents were. You have 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


213 


good hearts, you are kind, Will. Stay please, and 
listen. It will help you to bear what our separation 
means. If it is a shameful story of crime and 
wrong it will come well from your lips, Mr. Cur- 
tis,” she went on, looking at Curtis; ‘‘for your face 
is like one I used to see in terrible dreams of my 
childhood. Tell me what you know; I can bear it.” 

“Tell what hes^will,” cried his son, ‘‘it shall not 
influence me. Jean I will never give you up. I 
will dog your steps, I will follow you to the end of 
the earth.” 

Curtis had been undecided, noV he hesitated no 
longer; he sat back in his chair c(Arex)sedly. 

“Will’s last remark has made it neceSiSary I should 
go on; some diseases need heroic treatment. Well, 
you have heard of the Johnsons?” he said, address- 
ing Miss Franklin, who stared at him blankly as if 
he were not speaking to her. “They had a child, 
Jane; they adopted a girl, Mary MacDonald, they 
went to live in Desperation Gulch. They mined for 
gold in a creek there. I was a miner then, and 
Brooks here. These Johnsons, low, ignorant peo- 
ple, sold liquor, adding to the drunkenness and vice 
in the camp. The children ran wild like little 
wolves; they were half starved, and ignorant as the 
people who kept them. Winter came on; the min- 
ers went over the hill to Perry’s Grant and lost 
sight of the Johnsons. One day my wife and son. 
Will here,” (Will started eagerly), "went down the 
mountain side and found these two little children. 


214 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


half Starved, huddled up under a tree in the sun- 
shine. Will gave them his lunch, which they ate 
eagerly." (Here Jean’s eyes met Will’s, and a wan, 
ghost of a smile crossed her lips.) "Childlike he 
went again to find the children. It was after a hor- 
ribly cold night. He did not find them, but wan- 
dered down to the old tree where he saw the two 
Johnsons burying a box. Frightened at a crime he 
must have known by instinct, he rushed back to 
Perry’s Grant and told the men. A mob collected 
— I am not ashamed to say I was a ring-leader — " 
Here Brooks mov^^^ uneasily in his chair. "I was 
a ring-leader^^-j. repeated Curtis. "I had heard my 
boy’s story the starved little children under the 
tree; I knew what to expect." 

"You struck my mother and made her fall," said 
Will. "You wanted the rope, and she tried to stop 
you. She died the next morning." 

"Your memory is faulty. Will; you were only 
eight at the time, " went on Curtis, hurriedly. "The 
mob rushed down the hill to the cabin. The John- 
sons could not tell where Mary MacDonald was; 
one man found the mound; we unearthed the coffin. 
My God! what a sight! The child was starved to 
a skeleton, one leg was nearly cut off with a hatchet 
stroke, two great gashes were on her head, and her 
hands and feet were frozen — yes, frozen; and she, 
that awful cold night — the coldest ever known in 
that region — lay in a fireless attic, with an old gunny 
sack — wet with her martyr blood — for a bed. Those 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


215 


men went mad; they would have tortured the fiends 
inch by inch, but I said, ‘hang them, lynch them!’ 
The mob caught up my words; they hurried the 
miserable creatures down the valley to an old pine 
and strung them up like dogs and left them there 
to rot. It was not half bad enough. They were 
well fed, comfortable, warm; that child was starv- 
ing, miserable, beaten, bruised, frozen to death. 
Bah, it makes me sick even after all these years to 
think of it." 

They listened in ghastly silence to his swift 
words, then Jean said wildly: 

"Yes, yes; I know. It was no dream. She, lit- 
tle Mary, I slept under her; she was cold, she 
would not speak. They made me warm; then all 
the men came; I crawled under a quilt, I hid. 
They went away; there was no Mary, no one, I 
looked, I cried, no one, no one! I hid myself in 
the bed, all alone in that hut. Then there came 
two men; it was light again. They found me — one 
of them dragged me out, clutched my arm, and," 
cried Jean, thrusting the fringe of golden curls 
from her forehead, "he struck me with a great whip 
here! Here on my forehead!" 

On her white forehead glowed a deep mark, red 
as blood. The scar had come as living proof she 
was the Johnson’s child. 

"You are the man — you! "the frenzied girl screamed, 
pointing to Curtis, who, pale and guilty, had no 
words now. "You would have killed me! Some 


2i6 


JEAN HEARS HER HISTORY 


one, another man, took me on a horse. It is all a 
blank until I remember the Greens and that house. 
Marry your son? Never. Let him despise me, let 
all the world despise me. What does it matter to 
me? I can not deny the story of a shameful crime 
and wrong, I can but suffer and bear it. If I carry 
the mark of your blow like a brand of Cain, you 
shall carry the curse of a murderer in your heart. 
Low as I am — child of what parents — I never can 
sink to your level — I would not try to murder a 
helpless little child that I might steal the land 
rightfully hers! Mr. McClure,” she went on, grown 
suddenly calm; “you are kind, all of you, and good; 
but you feel the shock, the horror of this story. I 
will go to-night to Miss Wallace. Something tells 
me she does not know yet. It will keep me from 
going mad to be with her. She has suffered — she 
has lost a lover — ” cried Jean with a wild laugh. 
"She — oh God, have mercy! Help me! No, no; 
do not speak — for God’s sake don’t touch me. 
What am I? What am I? The leper cries — in the 
Bible, you know — ‘Unclean, unclean’ — ” 

She ran out then and left them, and they heard 
the door slam. 

McClure followed. He heard Miss Wallace’s 
gate slam, the bell ring, and he saw by the hall 
light streaming out in to the darkness, Jean go in, 
and the door close behind her. 


CHAPTER XVI 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 

“You have accomplished what you came for?" said 
McClure re-entering the library; “is there anything 
further you wish to say?" 

The old Scotchman endeavored to be cool but 
his gray hair was disordered, his eyes bloodshot and 
wild. “Nothing; I regret it, sir. The girl herself 
forced me," Curtis answered uncomfortably. 

“You have my sympathy," said the Senator man- 
fully. “Do not think me an enemy. I love and honor 
Jean; if she would have me? I would marr}^ her 
to-morrow. I was brought here against my will. ” 

“I believe you," said poor McClure nervously. 
“Jean is much obliged — great honor I’m sure. You 
will go now?" 

“First” cried Will coming from the window where 
he had been half hidden by the curtains, “let me 
say a few words. I am to blame for this. In my 
mad love for Jean, I have brought all this sorrow 
on her happy home. Oh if I could have taken it on 
me! Let me say my last to you, Mr. McClure, you 
honest gentleman, my father from this moment is 
nothing to me. You heard what I said when he 
told me the story? He struck my mother down, he 

217 


2i8 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


killed her. I swear it, for he broke her heart by 
slow cruelty and finished his work by that blow. 
Let him deny it if he dare. Her father shall de- 
mand a reckoning yet. You heard his story of the 
Johnsons; my story is only that he stole the John- 
son’s mine — he took the land of the man he mur- 
dered, of fhe woman he murdered — he says he was 
the ringleader in that mob; now you know why. 
He made his millions, whose money is it? That 
child’s — the child he would have killed — the girl 
who to-day bears the scar of his blow. I have no 
more to say — never from this , moment will I see 
him again. Forgive me, Mr. McClure; I have not 
meant this; I could not even have dreamed it. Dear 
Mrs. McClure, forgive me! If the time ever comes 
when she can hear my name without a shudder tell 
her I loved her, nothing can make me change. Per- 
haps, in a better world, if there is one— we can 
come together again. I may not be the son of her 
parents’ murderer there! ” 

He went out and they heard his horse galloping 
away in the darkness. 

“I hope your work has pleased you,” said Miss 
Franklin, for McClure and his sobbing wife had left 
the room. 'Tt remains for me to show you the 
door, and to hope you will never pass this threshold 
again. • Let me assure you. Senator Brooks, and 
Mr. Curtis, though my ancestors came over in the 
‘Mayflower’, and our family have been favorably 
known in every generation since that period, your 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


219 


remarks have not lowered Miss Jean McClure in 
my esteem; I regard her — ’’continued Miss Franklin, 
following them to the door, hurling her words after 
them like a malediction — “I regard her as the vic- 
tim of a vile conspiracy.” 

Curtis went back to the hotel, where he found 
his wife in a hysterical state. He calmed her as 
best he could, and they departed that night for New 
York. Curtis never told his wife the story of the 
interview, but she knew that it had been worse than 
he expected, and she wisely refrained from ques- 
tioning him. Will’s name was not mentioned in 
the home; by degrees he was forgotten, and the 
younger children never remembered him at all. 
Henry Curtis changed the final disposition of his 
property, leaving the name of his eldest son out. 
He never was quite at peace in his heart after his 
return from Denver. He remembered his son’s hor- 
ror and contempt, the angry truths he had uttered 
with scornful lips; but Henry Curtis’ worst specter 
was not remembrance, but reality. He daily dreaded 
the stern featured, white-haired old sea captain, 
who would call him to account for his daughter’s 
death, and would bring up that forgery of the past 
to overwhelm him with shame and dishonor. The 
world was darker for Henry Curtis’ wife; for her 
light nature caught the shadow of his miserable 
moods, diamonds, carriages and fashionable life 
palled upon her sometimes. She thought, half 
wistfully, of the days of poverty and patience in 
Desperation Gulch. 


220 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


The days of poverty of the past often seem brighter 
and sunnier than those of present prosperity. 

When Will left the McClures’, he rode out on a 
lonely road in Highland. It led over the hills 
toward the mountains; he did not know nor care 
where He dashed on at a gallop. His mare was 
a good animal, but not calculated for a twenty-mile 
run. She began to stumble and breathe heavily. 

“I’m a brute even to a brute,” sighed Will; “go 
on, Dolly, there’s a light ahead.” 

As he rode up, he saw the lights came from the 
windows of a dilapidated wooden building. At a 
rail in front a number of saddle horses were tied, 
who were kicking at each other and champing their 
bits. Will saw through the window a bar-room 
and a number of men dressed in rough flannel 
shirts, with leather leggings, wide-brimmed hats, 
long boots with spurs and prominent revolvers, 
sitting at a table drinking, while a tall young fel- 
low in the same costume strode up and down the 
room in a fret about something. The landlord heard 
the sound of the mare’s feet, and came to the door. 

“Who’s thar?” he yelled. 

“I want a night’s lodging,” Will said, riding up 
to the door. “Can I get it here?” 

“If these gents is willin’,” said the landlord ob- 
sequiously. “Thy’re cowboys an’ raises h— ,” he 
added in a. low tone. 

“What’s he givin’ yer? ” chuckled a big red-headed 
fellow, coming to the door, whirling the landlord 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


221 


out of the wa}^ “Skeerin’ yer ’bout us eh? Ride 
in here, an’ let’s look at ye.” 

‘‘I’ll come in,” said Will pleasantly; ‘‘but my 
mare’s tired and skittish; the room might frighten 
her; she’s used to horses, not donkeys.” 

A bullet whizzed by Will’s head at that, while a 
crowd of grinning faces gathered at the door. Will 
calmed his mare, saying carelessly: 

‘‘You’re a bad shot; I wish you’d been a better. ” 

“Come in,” said the red headed man, known 
from his lurid hair as “Blazes.” “Landlord, take 
keer o’ that animel, an’ don’t stint the provender 
neither. None of your rust}' oats an’ rat-bit corn. 
Come in, young fellow. Here’s the cowboys of 
Brush’s round-up; we’re bound for the Repub- 
likin, an’ we’re stoppin’ here ter water, bein’ 
thirsty.” 

Will made himself at home, ordering drinks" for 
the crowd. 

“Want another hand?” he asked, when they were 
agreeably communicative. 

“Here’s a chance for ye, Charley,” said Blazes. 
“That young saptin is a green han’. He joined us 
in Denver, got a rig an’ a broncho; his gal went 
back on him or the old man did; got out ten miles, 
they sent word by a mounted perliceman — Charley 
come home — old man’ll give him a job on the place 
an’ him an’ the gal kin be spliced right off, sooner 
the better. We ses no go, Charley; perlice goes 
back, Charley goes on. Look at the tears in his 
peepers — booby I ” 


222 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


Lubberly Charley essayed a melancholy smile. 

"Fine ornament, him!” grinned Blazes. 

"I wonder now,” said Will, thoughtfully, "if I 
could not join you? Suppose, Charley, you and I 
change clothes. "I’ll throw in this watch and 
chain; we’re the same height and bigness. My 
mare’s worth ^150; you may have her if you will 
let her rest till morning. She’s winded by the run. 
I’ll take your broncho; I am a fair rider. I’ll pick 
up the business fast enough." 

"Be yer in airnest, ’n is that watch your’n?" said 
Charley, aghast. 

"Yes, of course it is.” Will cried impatiently. 

"Who’ve yer killed? Don’t be skeered, wuntblow 
on yer,” said Blazes, with interest. "You’re a 
blood!” 

"I’m like Charley, my girl has jilted me. I 
want to be lost to her and all the rest. I haven’t 
killed anyone, but I’d like to.” 

"Well now,” said Blazes, good naturedly, a little 
disapppointed, the reason was so tame, "Charley 
kin be spared; the cows ’ud eat him, enny way, 
he’s such a green, tender thing. Ye’re a lonely 
turtle dove — weVe hed lots on ’em; they rastles 
with fried pork purty lively at the end of a week. 
Yer’ll git over it, I guess. Strip, now, if ye’re 
cornin’, we’ve no time to waste. ” 

The two men changed clothes. Will made a 
handsome cowboy, but Charley was rather a melan- 
choly object in a New York tailor’s best. 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


223 


"Keep the clothes shady a few days," cautioned 
Will; "they might think you murdered me. Take 
the watch; my father gave it to me; I hate him, I 
would destroy it anyway.” 

Charley ambled off in his new attire to find a 
looking-glass and to show himself to the landlord’s 
fat wife. Will followed the cowboys outside. He 
settled the score with the landlord, parting with 
his last cent. 

"This is your’n," said Blazes, pointing out a vic- 
ious looking sorrel, smaller than a horse, known as 
a broncho — a wonderfully intelligent little animal in 
his business, and one who seems to take a spiteful 
delight in outwitting and tormenting unruly cattle. 

"What name?" asked Blazes, as Will swung him- 
self into the saddle. 

"Hawley," said Will quickly. 

"Three cheers for Hawley! "shouted Blazes. "Three 
cheers and a snorter! 

There followed three wild yells, a chorus of pistol 
shots, and with this fusillade, by way of a parting 
benediction to the landlord, and an address of wel- 
come to the new arrival, the wild mob of bronchos 
with their wilder riders dashed pellmell along the 
road, then off across the plains. 

"It’s a mercy we’ve the house left," said Mrs. 
Landlord, looking after them. 

"They’re a bad lot, " said metamorphosed Charles 
— a traitor when they were out of earshot. 

When the horses were a mere speck on the prai- 


224 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


rie in the ]i[?ht of the moon now high in the heav- 
ens, the red lantern and shining eyes of a train 
shot across the plains to the eastward, rumbling 
like distant thunder, leaving a serpentine trail of 
smoke far behind. Henry Curtis little dreamed 
that speck on the horizon was his son riding with 
a mad crowd of cowboys, the wildest, maddest of 
them all. 

The new life suited Will. He learned to be 
expert with the lariat, he was the most reckless 
rider of all. He went into the wildest herds, he 
sought danger, but escaped unscathed. The living 
was hard at first; he had to learn to eat bread with 
a greenish tinge and soda taste, ham fried in a big 
kettle, or corned beef and pork. Boiled potatoes 
seemed rather plain embellishments to a dinner of 
fried pork, but he grew to relish it,, and had a ter- 
rible appetite; after all that camp cook labored 
under difficulties of fire and accessories to the cul- 
inary art that would have driven a French cook 
distracted. 

Will slept at night wrapped in his blanket, his 
bed the plains, his roof the star-studded sky. He 
went days without washing his face; his beard 
grew in a ragged, trampish style; his hair was un- 
tidily long and he was as brown as an Indian. He 
learned cowboys were, on the whole, a good class 
of men. They were fond of healthy fun; they liked 
to scare greenhorns who had formed wild ideas of 
them, and people like the fat landlord were irre- 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


225 


sistible. ~ They paid for everything they got and 
for the damage they did. They were chivalrous and 
gentlemanly to women, as a rule, tender-hearted to 
animals, and like sailors, were robbed and cheated 
when at the mercy of traders and lodging-keepers. 
They were brave and daring, and honest' to their 
employer’s interest. Will found much to admire 
and much to commend in the cowboys he lived 
among; he thought that, along with the pioneers, 
the miners, the cowboys held a foremost place in 
the development of the West. 

So life went on across the wide plains, and he 
saw no face but his companions. He rode his bron- 
cho and had two others in the herd, for each man 
has three or more horses and rides one until it is 
tired, then the next day takes another. 

"The ‘roundup' is to gather in the cattle of the 
owner’s private mark, separate the other brands, 
single out the brandless^or ‘mavericks’, and brand 
the calves. It is no light task, for the vast herds 
of cattle stray hundreds of miles, and rounding 
them up to a common center is a work of weeks. 
When the herd is rounded the cattle must be singled 
out, divided, the different brands set apart in little 
herds from the center one, and so on until the 
work is done. The cowboy singles out his animal, 
dashes into the herd and drives it out; frequently 
the animal runs a long distance, until finally cap- 
tured by the lariat and thrown. Cows with calves 
are refractory, and the calf has often to be secured 

15D 


226 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


to make the mother come. The calves seem pos- 
sessed of all the agility and daring of antelopes in 
their efforts to escape. Sometimes the central herd 
gets frightened and stampedes; then good by to the 
unfortunate cowboys in its path. 

A round-up makes a marvelous picture. 

There is first the blue Colorado sky; and how hot 
and blue it is! Then far, faraway, the brown plains 
just turning to faint green; in the foreground, a 
forest of horns — a moving bronze-red mass all quiver- 
ing — the herd. Apart from it stand groups of 
cattle with a distracted, lonesome look. In the dis- 
tance a wild steer is racing with a horseman; here 
a cowboy rushes into a herd and out gallops a cow 
with a bleating calf, which runs in every direction. 
Here is a steer lying on his side on the ground, the 
lariat rope on his horns! There a crowd of cowboys 
striving to hold a distracted group from heading 
in a wrong direction. Over the mass of cattle 
dust is rising like smoke. It is pawed up by the 
myriads of impatient hoofs. The air resounds with 
the bleating of calves, the lowing and roaring of 
the cattle. Afar off are the white tents of the' 
camp, and near them a herd of horses grazing on 
the crisp buffalo grass, in friendly companionship, 
ready to run over the prairie and test the cowboy’s 
best effort to secure them. 

A cowboy’s life is a daring one, full of excite- 
ment and bravery, of wild haste and courage; still, 
it is hard; work is steady and wearing, and fare 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


227 


not the best. But the men are men, riding their 
half-tamed horses and managing, maneuvering, sepa- 
rating, gathering those terrified cattle with the skill 
of a general over a mighty army. 

Will thought of Jean. In his wildest moods, 
when he and a few boon companions rode down to 
a little settlement and drank hard and deep, her face 
would rise before him, to make him desperate. He 
would drink the harder, poor Will! She was not 
for him; he could not marry her. Then he would 
grow wilder; reeling in his saddle, waving his wide- 
rimmed hat, he would dash across the plain like an 
Indian on the most vicious broncho of the lot. He 
never failed in his duty no matter how severe his 
dissipation, and no fault could be found with him. 

Some of the older men thought it a pity the lad 
was going down hill so fast, he was such a jolly 
companion, generous and good-hearted. They rea- 
soned with him; he would laugh, then say with an 
oath : 

“Let me have my fun, boys. Drink kills the 
trouble in me. If that wasn’t killed it would lay 
me out. Fill up my glass again. I’ll drink till I 
forget!” 

They thought he bore a charmed life, he was so 
reckless in his ignorance at first; and when he 
knew the work, was skilled with the lariat, he was 
worse than ever. He sought danger, he hungered 
for death; but lived and grew stronger, more manly 
and more reckless. 


228 


WILL BECOMES A COWBOY 


“If it had happened now,” he thought one night, 
as he lay in his blanket looking up to the stars, 
“I would have silenced him — my father. I would 
have taken her in my arms and carried her away by 
force. I would have stopped her mouth with 
kisses and laughed her out of her sorrow. I would 
kill a man who dared to taunt her. I would give 
her a home in a wilderness, she and I, and that past 
should never trouble me. Oh, my Jean? 

“ ‘But dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean,’ 

“How that song haunts* me,” he muttered half 
aloud. “It’s true — so pitiful true. Oh, Jean, Jean 
— has the end come? Are you lost to me forever?” 
He covered his face with his blanket, and^when at 
last his exahusted physical nature overcame his 
mental misery and he fell aleep, there were tears 
on his dark eye-lashes. Strangely pathetic his re- 
cumbent figure, his wasted face lying on his bronzed, 
muscular arm. His mother would have wept over 
him. Drifting to destruction with no hand to stay 
him! 


CHAPTER XV 


A newspaper’s testimony 

Jean rushed from the house that night, with a wild 
hope of escape from herself. She had no definite 
purpose; but a strange desire to go to the woman 
who had had a sorrow, who had suffered twenty 
years. What was it people whispered of Miss Wal- 
lace, that Jean had heard her mother hint to Miss 
^ Franklin? There must have been some sin, some 
shame, in Miss Wallace’s past life, that made her 
withdraw from the world, and made her face so in- 
expressibly sad, so prematurely aged. 

"Clar fer goodness. Miss Jean, you skeered me,” 

, said old Sam, ushering the trembling girl into the 
hall. ‘‘Ringin’ de bell dis time o’ night, standin’ dar 
like a ghost, all white an’ skeered-like. Is de folk 
sick ober dar? What’s de matter?” 

“Nothing, Sam,” Jean answered faintly. “Tell 
Miss Wallace I want to see her, just a moment.” 
^ As she spoke a door opened and Rose McCord 
I came into the hall. 

’v “You here?” she said, coldly; “you must be out 
of your mind — at this time, too! Miss Wallace has 
^ been in bed an hour. She can not be disturbed.” 

229 


230 


A newspaper’s testimony 


"Ah, do not send me away,” pleaded Jean; "I 
can not go home to-night.” 

Jean saw even this woman had changed from polite 
attentiveness, she had become familiar and uncivil. 
She wondered if everybody would change, too; if 
this was a forecast of the future? 

"You will have to go," said Rose, opening the 
door. 

"Now Rose, you ain’t gwine to do no sich a thing, ’’ 
said Sam. "You ain’t de boss ob dis house. I’ll 
tell Miss Wallace. You set still, honey, in that 
cheer. Rose ain’t got no right to talk ter ye in dat 
way. " 

"I’ll g'o. I’ll go," Jean cried wildly, staggering to 
her feet. "She is right; I won’t disturb Miss Wal- 
lace; I have no business to be here." 

"Neither now nor at any time after to-night,” 
Rose went on rudely. 

"What is the trouble?" called Miss Wallace, com- 
ing to the balustrade of the winding staircase look- 
ing down from the upper hall. "Who has no busi- 
ness to come to me? To whom are you speaking. 
Rose?" 

"Ter Missey Jean, missus,” put in Sam hurriedly, 
glad of an opportunity to vent his spite on Rose; 
"Rose’s been orderin’ de young leddy off de prem- 
ises suah." 

"Jean here!" cried Miss Wallace, coming down the 
stairs in her trailing black wrapper like a shadow, 
"Jean, white and terror-stricken and trembling like 


A newspaper’s testimony 


231 


a little frightened bird! What is it my sweet? Tell 
me your trouble. Rose McCord, go to your own 
part of the house — the servants’ quarters. What 
have you to do with my guests? You forget your 
place; you abuse my kindness.” 

"You don’t know who that girl is," said Rose, 
doggedly. "Let me tell you, then you. will thank 
me, not blame me.” 

"Rose, Rose,” cried Miss Wallace, sadly, "have 
you forgotten my past? Are you so sullenly obstinate 
you will never learn my hopes and my desires? This 
dear Jean, pure as a lily — and you, Rose McCord, 
daring to malign her to me! Go, go; do not come 
to me until you are sorry. Rose. Come Jean,” she 
said as Rose went away in ill-humor, “come to my 
room with me, my own room, and I will comfort 
you and console you.” 

'T had better go — you will despise me, I am de- 
ceiving you,” said Jean, in a dazed way. “She said 
so — all of them. No one pities me. The whole world 
is against me.” 

"Help us, Sam,” called Miss Wallace, anxiously, 
"See — Jean is falling. Her head is turning; her 
hands are like ice. Send Aunt Molly up, and you 
ride to Denver for a doctor.” 

Together they carried the unconscious girl upstairs, 
and laid her on Miss Wallace’s bed then sped away 
for the doctor. Old black Molly came waddling up, 
and they put Jean to bed, laying cool cloths on her 
head and fanning her. One moment she was un- 


232 A newspaper’s testimony 

conscious, the next she started up screaming. 

“Don’t let them tell you, Miss Wallace; keep them 
away! Miss Wallace hide me, hide me!” 

She screamed and moaned, and it seemed an age 
before the doctor came. 

Dr. Morris was a gray-haired old man, who had 
known Miss Wallace for twenty years. He had not 
crossed the threshold of her home since her father 
died. He did not think of that when he drove up 
to the door, but of a day when a little child was 
born eighteen years ago. He would never forget that 
night, the deaths of the two men, Dwight Wallace 
and Roy MacDonald, and the terrible wrath of the 
old Judge at what seemed his daughter’s shame. 
He prescribed for jean a simple soothing draught 
then went over to McClure’s and told them how 
she was, delivering a sympathetic message from Miss 
Wallace. After talking with McClure and his wife, 
who were so strangely upset and sad, arguing from 
this that Jean had probably quarreled with them, 
the old doctor drove home. Ashe crossed the bridge 
and the hoofs of his horse rattled over the planks, he 
looked back to the Wallace mansion on the heights. 

"I’d like to have seen that girl’s left foot,” he 
said, meditatively; “I’d give— I’d give a year of my 
best practice to do so.” 

With these strange reflections he touched up his 
horse and drove on. 

Jean was better the next day, and on the third was 
up and dressed. Miss Wallace was a loving and 


A newspaper’s testimony 


233 


tireless nurse. Jean begged the McClures and Miss 
Franklin not to come to see her; she sent her dear 
love, but she felt the sight of them would recall 
what she tried to forget. It almost broke their 
hearts, and poor McClure walked up and down in- 
side the fence that separated his grounds from Miss 
Wallace’s all day; Sam came out every half hour 
with comforting assurances from the sick chamber, 
obtaining for them a silver dollar through the fence, 
which he took with a thoughtful air, as if his ges- 
ture of acceptance was entirely unconscious. 

The afternoon of the third day, Jean came back 
to her old self. She had been lying so quiet that 
Miss Wallace thought her asleep. 

“Miss Wallace,” she said, with her old bright 
smile, “I’ve been playing ’possum. I’ve been lying 
awake watching you, thinking how much I' love 
you. Now don’t get up; I am all right, I want 
nothing — yes, I do one thing.” 

“What, Jean?” 

“The name of the first paper published in Den- 
ver?” 

Miss Wallace grew white, a frightened look came 
into her eyes. She struggled a moment before she 
could speak, then she said brokenly: 

“Why do you ask?” 

A haunting fear came to her that Jean knew of 
her sad history, and wanted to have that knowl- 
edge confirmed. 

“Because I want to read the history Of my par- 


234 


A newspaper’s testimony 


ents’ death,” said Jean firmly. “It is in the paper 
I know. T shall see it, nothing can stop me; I 
must read for myself. It will tell me nothing but 
what I know. I would like to go with you to find 
the paper; I want to read its files for the year 
1868." 

"‘The Pioneer’ is the earliest paper. We might 
go to its office,” said Miss Wallace doubtfully; 
“but Jean, is it right to harrow yourself up with 
old stories that can only make you miserable?” 

“I’m. not of a gloomy nature,” said Jean, with a 
wan attempt at a smile. “See, I am not morbid; 

I am natural. A child should know of its parents, 
no matter how bad, how low they were." 

She coaxed a long time, at last Miss Wallace con- 
sented, and the next day she and Jean drove to 
Denver. In the pocket of Jean’s cloak, old Mc- 
Clure had put a blotted note and a $50 bill. 

“Bonnie Jean: — Come home soon. We love you. 
We know and remember nothing but that you are 
our Jean. Take this money and buy something, or 
give it to the poor; only ask me for more. Come 
back to a daughter’s rights; be our child again. I 
am your fond old father, Alex. McClure.”' 

Passing through the street, Jean wanted to stop ' 
at a dry goods store. When she came out she had 
changed her pretty blue gown for a black one, and 
her blue hat with its long plumes for a black bon- 
net and veil. She answered lightly all Miss Wal- 
lace’s objections, saying she would go back to 


A newspaper’s testimony 


235 


happy colors when her life was happier. With her 
pretty gown Jean lost her light heartedness and 
brightness. She seemed no longer a merry girl, but 
a grave faced woman. 

“You are sorrowful, you wear black. Miss Wallace," 
said she sadly; “the bright dress and hat mocked 
me. I could not bear them. A black cloud has 
come over my blue sky. I know now why people 
who have lost loved ones wear black." 

They drove to the newspaper office, where Jean 
was gone a long time, while Sam drove up and 
down the street. A polite young clerk in the bus- 
iness office of the paper hunted up the volume of 
the 5^ear 1868. 

“It is dusty and yellow, but quite interesting, ” he 
exclaimed; “and of course possesses a historical 
value. " 

“Certainly," said Jean, turning the leaves with 
trembling hand. She read a long account of the 
lynching of the Johnsons. The story of Mary Mac- 
Donald, a waif and a stray — of her brutal treatment, 
and the body being brought to Denver to exhibit to 
a vulgar throng of curiosity seekers. She read that 
Zurtis and Brooks were ringleaders in the mob, 
that both were equally guilty. In fact, the whole 
article was a sort of glorification of their deed. 

The glib young clerk, officious in his zeal to 
help so pretty a woman, peered over her shoulder. 

“Awful thing, that lynching," he said. “Those 
Johnsons were brutes — fiends, but hanging the wo- 


236 


A newspaper’s testimony 


man was a lasting disgrace to the men and the 
country. Though it seems she was the most guilty. 
Old, you see, a day after the occurrence. Well, 
news was hard to get then.” 

"Who furnished the account?” Jean asked. Her 
name was not there; there was no mention of a 
child. 

"Do you know, John?” said the officious clerk, 
addressing a barnacle in the office corner — a gray- 
haired old gentleman with spectacles. "Who 
brought the account of the lynching of the Johnsons 
to this office?” 

"Let me see,” said the old gentleman deliber- 
ately, with that peculiar gusto a pioneer feels when 
asked for events in Denver’s early history. "Let 
me see — I was here — I’ll never forget the excite- 
ment; the mob in Denver wanted to dig the John- 
sons up and hang them over again. The child’s 
body lay at Sim’s shop a day or two; then the ex- 
citement died out. A queer old fellow here — Mac- 
Donald — hauled the poor little body in its calico 
slip, in a rough box, out to the graveyard; he said, 
never a prayer was preached over her, and he was 
never paid for hauling her out and burying her but 
then he was her father, inhuman old rascal. Well, 
that’s a mob — all fire one moment, indifferent the 
next. Indignation don’t cost anything ;burial— a de- 
cent shroud and coffin — would. Well, let’s see what 
names are in the account? Oh, Brooks and Curtis. 
They told us. The story there is, of course, one- 


A newspaper’s testimony 


237 

sided; for the Johnsons were dead, and these two 
men were the ringleaders in the lynching.” 

“There is something else, though,” he went on, 
running his fat forefinger up and down the columns, 
x^looking for a paragraph. “I remember, I wrote it 
myself, though I was condemned loudly for it by 
the population here. Let me see” (a long accent on 
the me). “Ah, here it is!” 

He read with some relish of his own literary 
ability, and enjoyment of the production, in the 
droning voice good old gentlemen use, with marked 
slowness to emphasize his own strong points, 

“Yesterday Henry Curtis and Tom Brooks seized 
the Johnson claim, located in Desperation gulch, 
a mile from Perry’s grant. The claim was directly 
above the section of the creek worked b}^ Curtis and 
Brooks. It is rumored they are about to sink a shaft 
in the hill, under the site of the Johnson cabin. 
These Johnsons, it will be remembered, were rela- 
tives of old Hard-ludk Johnson, who came here in 
1856, and located the claim. It is a singular thing 
that these two men were foremost in the horrible 
outrage a week ago in the Gulch, where the John- 
sons without trial or chance for defense, were bru- 
tally lynched for the murder of Mary McDonald. 
It seems to point out a motive for their action and 
to throw a new light on the lynching. If Denver 
wishes to preserve decency, order and safety, she 
should order a thorough investigation of these 
men’s claims to the property, and advertise for rel- 
atives of the Johnsons.” 


238 


A newspaper’s testimony 


“Which would/’ added the old gentleman, be- 
nignly, “have brought us in advertising, besides 
sending the ' Pioneer’ through the East, making a 
sample copy of a Western production’’ (with much 
emphasis on the pro). “No notice was taken of the 
paragraph,” the old gentleman went on, with an 
injured air, “and the whole matter was dropped. 
Several subscribers to the ' Pioneer’ calling with 
shotguns to have their papers stopped or a different 
tone adopted by the paper, it was considered policy 
to follow popular sentiment ; but there was a queer 
thing happened that day. See here, this verse!” 

“Willy Curtis— a little boy of eight years — was 
found last night in Rodger’s barn, hiding in an old 
chest. He owned up, after much questioning, he 
had run away from Desperation Gulch that morning 
and walked twenty miles. He said be was going 
East to his grandfather in Boston, and that he 
hated his father. He was a manly little fellow, 
seemingly indifferent to pain, for his feet were swol- 
len and cut in many places, and he had eaten noth- 
ing all day. Jonas Fletcher, of Perry’s Grant, hap- 
pened to be in town, and he took the boy home in 
the morning.” 

“I also wrote that,” said the old gentleman with 
modest pride. 

“It’s very nice," said Jean unsteadily. “Thank 
you for your kindness.” 

“Not at all, not at all,” smiled the old gentle- 
man, conducting her to the door, while the clerk 


A newspaper’s testimony 


239 


looked on in dismay. “Ah, Miss Wallace’s carriage 
— a fine lady — visiting there? Like to read our 
files, eh? Historical; I’ve been on that paper, off 
and on, twenty years. Come over again; come 
often; ladies are always welcome, and such beauti- 
ful ones!’’ he finished with a burst of pent-up ad- 
miration. He escorted her to the carriage, standing 
hat in hand till she drove away. 

“You’re smart,” said the clerk angrily, as the old 
gentleman returned smiling to the office. 

“I was always considered so,” smiled the barnacle, 
sinking into a chair and resuming his paper. "I 
seemed to .be the favored one in that direction. 
You’ll have to grow in wisdom and years, young 
man, to get ahead of me.” 

“Where now?” said Miss Wallace. 

“Home, to dear father McClure,” Jean replied 
brightly. “Miss Wallace, I never can be grateful 

enough to you. You have saved me, for I was 

frantic that night.” 

Jean went home, where McClure, his wife and 
Miss Franklin welcomed her more fondly than ever. 
They begged she would not wear the black dress; 
but in this she was firm, and they had to become 
accustomed to a pale Jean, who seldom smiled — a 
young sweet face with a shadow over it; beautiful 
eyes, once bright and merry, sadly thoughtful now 

— a slight figure in a black gown, a golden head 

bowed over work or book, a voice low and hesitat- 
ing, and slender hands, growing more slender every 
day. 


240 


A newspaper’s testimony 


One night when Jean was walking near the di- 
viding fence between her home and Miss Wallace’s, 
a figure came out of the shadow of the trees and 
motioned to her. She saw in the moonlight Rose 
McCord, with wild eyes and disheveled hair half 
hidden under a hooded cloak. It was a warm, 
spring-like night, and Jean had come out to walk 
away her sad thoughts. Little those who loved 
her knew what her brave heart bore. 

“Come here,” whispered Rose hoarsely. "Don’t 
refuse me. I must speak to you.” 

“I would not refuse you. Rose,” said Jean kindly. 

“Don’t you hate me, detest me?” hissed Rose. 
“Wouldn’t you like to have me turned away from 
here? Haven’t you tried to influence Miss Wallace 
to send me away on account of that night?” 

“Did she tell you that?” Jean asked quietly. 

“No, she said you begged her not to speak to me 
about it, or let it influence her, for I was justified 
in what I did; but I hardly believed her.” 

“She said the truth; I have nothing against you; 
n-o, nor any one. I know all that shameful story. 
I can see why people should avoid — dislike me. It 
says in the Bible the sins of the parents shall be 
visited on the children unto the third and fourth 
generation. Their sin can be visited on me, but 
never on another child. I shall never cause a child 
to turn on me and say: "You are my mother. 
You have made me endure a miserable life. Through 
you I am of an accursed race.” 


A newspaper’s testimony 


241 


“You’re a strange girl,” cried Rose, “so calm. 
Yet you’re whiter and sadder— all your fine things, 
your riches, your beauty don’t help you now.” 

“I have been poor. Rose McCord,” said Jean 
quickly. “You saw me in that horrible home. I 
was poor in Coyote Gulch, so were dear Mr. Mc- 
Clure and his wife. Surely you would wish me no 
ill-will for that. The world is open to all. The 
mountains are there, the gold and silver are there. 
Would you have Mr. McClure burn the money? 
Who is more charitable, nobler than he? Shame 
on you for a base jealousy, you in your happy home 
need never feel. Have you been starved, tortured, 
beaten? I have; be satisfied.” 

“I hardly meant that,” muttered Rose. 

“I thought you could not. I will not believe a 
sister woman so ignoble.” 

“I’ve been cared for comfortably, ” ' said Rose, 
hastily. “I’ve had a kind mistress — but she was a 
mistress, I a servant; and then, Jean McClure, I 
loved a man for twenty years and more — ever since 
I was a girl of sixteen. He sought me out, he won 
my girl’s love that has never changed. He fooled 
me for years; he said he would marry me when he 
was rich. I waited — oh God, how long! He did 
get rich; he sold his mine and went East in the 
night like a thief. He never wrote me; he cared 
not if I lived or died. Then he came back here, 
rich, honored, a gentleman in manners. I had 
studied to make myself a lady; I had hoped he 
I6D 


242 


A newspaper’s testimony 


loved me still. I saw him here after the weary 
waiting, I saw him loving another woman, girl, 
young accomplished, rich, beautiful. I saw him at 
her side every day It was maddening, a daily mis- 
ery. ” 

"Who was the girl?” cried Jean. 

"You," said Rose hoarsely. "You!” 

"But I did not know. Was it Senator Brooks?" 
said jean, a light breaking upon her. 

"It was. You would not have what I would give 
my soul for. You spurned the love I yearned for. 
Then I went to him but he would not listen to me. 
I told him who you were; he said, ^prove it.’ I said 
not unless he married me. He hated Will Curtis, 
he was smarting under his defeat, he wanted re- 
venge, he promised, and I thought if he would 
marry me I could win his love after all. Then I 
told him— I, Miss Jean McClure. You owe me your 
downfall. Haven’t I had revenge for your making 
him love you?” 

"Do you think I deserved your enmity?” said 
Jean patiently. 

"I neither knew nor cared,” muttered Rose. 
"How do you feel now? Would you go to Miss 
Wallace? You may. I’m a reckless woman — a 
disappointed, heart-sick, half-mad woman. I would 
not care if she sent me away. I knew who you were. 
I found you — ” 

"I thank you for your part in the matter,” said 
Jean, solemnly. "Truely I am grateful to you. 


A newspaper’s testimony 


243 


You were only an instrument in the hand of God 
to prevent the marriage that, sooner or later, would 
have made a terrible sorrow. We would have been 
bound—Will and I — and had we learned then the 
story of my parents, we should have turned from 
each other with angry reproaches and bitter loath- 
ing.” 

“Would you marry him, if it had not happened; 
if you had not been the Johnson’s child?” Rose 
asked, with a wild laugh. 

“Why ask that? Those questions are useless,” 
said Jean, coldly. “Is this all you wish to say?” 

“Not all — not all,” cried Rose, seizing the girl’s 
shawl. “I heard Brooks tell McClure he was com- 
ing to see you to-night. He has something to tell 
you. If you have any mercy in your soul, if you 
have a woman’s heart, you will let me listen some- 
where and hear it. Don’t refuse — don’t turn away! 
See me on my knees,” cried the miserable woman, 
sinking to the ground. “See, I beg you, pray you; 
it is life to me, I must know — I will know." 

“It would be dishonorable — mean — I could not," 
said Jean. 

"No dishonor to him who is deceit," said Rose. 
“If you prevent me, I will let you go to your grave 
a thing of shame! No, no. Miss McClure, I do 
not mean that — no, no — you are going? Oh, have 
mercy on a woman — a bad woman. If you ever 
loved, if you saw your lover with another — if this 
man were your lover — I have sacrificed truth, hon- 



244 


A newspaper’s testimony 


or, all gratitude for him — for his interests; he will 
deceive me to the end." 

"I will tell you what he says," said Jean. 

"Tell me," groaned Rose — "You? I would not, 
could not believe it. I will, I must hear it from 
his own lips. Oh, Jean McClure, if it was 3^our 
lover now would not your soul be on fire? Do you 
hate me? Is this refusal your revenge?" 

"Rose McCord," said Jean, "are you possessed 
that you talk to me in this way? I have no re- 
venge. Come, if you will!" 

"Come!" echoed Rose. 

"I saw the senator go up the steps, a moment 
ago," said Jean. "They will call me. Take this 
key; the side door leads to my music-room; it is 
vacant in the evenings now, for I never open the 
piano. You can hide there behind the window 
curtains. You are making me a traitor and a spy, 
but I pity you from my heart." 





CHAPTER XVIII 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 

"He^s in the parlor, Jean,” whispered McClure 
as the girl came up the steps. "Sweet Jean,” he 
added, kissing her fondly. "If he wants to marr}^ 
my sad girl, what will she say?” 

"What would you wish, father,” Jean asked. 

"That Jean be true to Jean,” he said softly, and 
stole down the hall. He avoided the senator like 
a pestilence — disliking and dreading him. The 
Senator looked shocked when he saw Jean in her 
black dress with her pale face and sad eyes. How 
she had changed, and could such a woman be a 
child of the Johnson’s, of Desperation Gulch? 

"I will not ask you to sit down, ” Jean said coldly; 
"I think you have no right in this house where you 
have brought sorrow and trouble.” 

"I did my duty,” said the Senator sadly. "I suT 
fered intensely, at that interview.” 

Jean opened the music-room door. 

"Hear, me, Miss Jean. You know me only as a 
successful man in politics and wealth, yet I came 
out here a wagon driver; I sprang from as low a 
stock as you — my people are ignorant and unlet- 
tered. I came out here the lover of a servant, a 
245 


246 TWO WESTERN HERMITS 

red cheeked country beauty — Miss Wallace’s maid. 
I worked night and day; at last I found wealth. I 
went East; I fled in the night to avoid this woman. 
I studied, worked, lifted myself to heights I had 
never dreamed of. After years I saw you — I loved 
you. Then this woman found me out. She told 
me you were the child of those Johnsons. I had 
given you up ; I thought you were lost to me. I 
took hope at what she said; I put her off with 
promises. She had given them information on a 
promise that I would marry her. She my wife — a 
servant — and Mrs Johnson’s sister?” 

“What!” cried Jean. "She my mother’s sister? 
Mr. Brooks, you must be wrong. It cannot be! ” 

"It is so, she told me herself to prove that she 
knew you. I wrote to Curtis in New York who you 
were. He came on; you know the rest, I had no 
hand in your parent’s murder; 1 am guiltless. I 
love you, I honor you, Miss McClure. 1 have 
come to you at a time when you are a disgrace in 
the estimation of the very people who treated you 
as a daughter. You must have seen a change in 
the people about you. It is slight now to what it 
will be when the world finds out, as it must, who 
you are. Every door will be closed to you; but as 
the wife of Senator Brooks — loved and honored — 
the story must die out, you will find friends in the 
East and be happy.” 

"And this woman, my aunt, what of her?” said 
Jean, steadily. 




TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


247 


"I was mad to tell you that,” said Brooks; "she 
is a crazy woman. I will have her taken care of if 
she annoys us.” 

Us,” repeated Jean. "I have not answered you. 
Suppose I refuse you now as I did before; why 
should you not then marry this faithful woman who 
loves you?” 

"You are mocking me,” said the senator angrily. 
"Do not provoke me too far. I could never marry 
that woman— old, haggard, half witch, an ignorant 
servant. I will not heed you — you are jesting; it 
is a bad time to jest for I ^hold your fate in my 
hands.” 

"Have you not done all that can be done to harm 
me?” said Jean. 

"Society does not know who you are,” the sena- 
tor said coldly; "it shall know to-morrow. Every 
door shall be closed against you, and the McClures 
will be avoided by everybody. Your story will re- 
act upon them — your disgrace will be theirs — you 
will mar their happiness and cloud their lives! Be 
generous, Jean, and spare them! Ah, I do not 
mean that,” he went on eagerly taking her hand. 
"Why will you drive me to desperation? Why will 
you make me hateful in your sight? I love you, I 
love you ! Have pity on me. Give me a litle lik- 
ing. I will make you happy. Be my wife, Jean.” 

"Do not touch me,” she cried with a movement 
of repulsion. "I cannot bear it. Wait a moment , 
here.” She left the room and came back with a 


248 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


newspaper. “I got this in Miss Wallace's attic,” 
she said slowly, her face so stern and cold, all the 
youth had died out of it. “It is a copy of a news- 
paper published in Denver on the first of Septem- 
ber, 1868." 

The senator took up the paper mechanicall5^ 
His eye fell on the column headed “Lynching at 
Desperation Gulch — Just Punishment of Elisha 
Johnson and His Fiendish Wife — Hung on One 
Tree, etc.” The paper dropped from his trembling 
hand to the floor. 

“It is hopeless,” he muttered. “I knew it was 
retribution. There would come some punishment. 
If you will not marry me,” he said fiercely, “you 
shall never marry another man.” 

“Would you kill me, as you did my parents?" 
said Jean, provoked beyond control. 

“No, I will do more. I will follow you wherever 
you go — I will flaunt your story in everybody’s eyes. 
I will make you an object of avoidance and disgust; 
you shall be despised. I will make your story a 
cross for the McClures to bear. I will wear out 
their patience, their love for you, and I will hunt 
you, a friendless, loveless outcast, to your grave!” 

He picked up the paper in his deliberate way and 
went out. When he slammed the gate, Jean went 
into the music room. 

“Are you satisfied, Rose?” she asked gently. 

Rose came from behind the curtains; she was 
pale, her eyes bloodshot, but she spoke calmly. 


iWO WESTERN HERMITS 


249 


“Yes, Jean, you are a true-hearted girl. If I 
were a better woman I might like you. Still I will 
help you; little you know what lies in my power.” 

“Hush, Rose,” said Jean solemnly: “you cannot 
help me, no one on earth can. The senator will 
not injure me. I have gone beyond all pain and 
suffering. ” 

“What do you mean? Are you going to commit 
suicide?” 

Jean smiled. 

“I am not a co\Yard to take my life, I am a young 
woman. I shall live long; but peace has come to 
me. My heart can suffer no more. There lies a 
path before me; if follow it I the trouble will be over. 
Aunt Rose, my mother’s sister, let us be friends. I 
pity you, ah, I do pity you! He is not worthy 
your love.” 

“Aunt Rose, cried the woman with a shrill laugh. 
“Never that again — Away, let me go! I will not 
take your hand; — bad as I am Jean McClure you 
shall suffer no longer. There will come a day of 
reckoning, I shall be cast out into darkness; but 
light shall come to you.” 

She flung Jean’s hand aside, darting out of the 
room as McClure and his wife, followed by Miss 
Franklin, came hurrying in. 

“It was only Rose,” said Jean, in answer to their 
questions. 

“The senator has gone. Rose was here a short 
time; she is not well I think. She seemed excited 
and wild, that was all.” 


250 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


“Let’s sit down and have an old-time talk,” Mrs. 
McClure pleaded eagerly. “Here we are in the 
music room again, and Jean pretty, do sing for us.” 
They gathered in a circle around the piano while 
Jean sang for them, she finished with her father’s 
song," I Love My Jean.’’ She kissed them good- 
night in her loving way and whispered to McClure 
the senator would never come again. He rejoiced 
that a great weight was off his mind. She stopped in 
the doorway a moment looking at them lovingly, 
yearningly; and they thought of her in the after 
wards, standing there looking back, with that 
strange sadness on her young face. 

“Jean seemed like our own Jean again,” said Mc- 
Clure in the privacy of his chamber to his wife. 

"Yes, indeed,” she answered heartily; “and I do 
hope no more senators will never darken these 
doors again.” 

Darkness settled down within and without the 
McClure mansion. Even the moon passed out of 
sight, as if she, too, were tired and went to bed. 
It was very still, only a low whine from Dicky, the 
dog — for from some (certainly to him) unaccounta- 
ble freak, his mistress had fastened him out in a dis- 
mal shed instead of letting him lie in her room. 
Twelve o’clock, just the hour for ghosts to walk. 
Yet there could not be ghosts in the new mansion 
that had neither traditions nor musty lore. Cer- 
tainly there was something stealing w’ith noiseless 
step down the soft-carpeted stairs. How a stair 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


251 


will creak under a stealthy step, how a door will 
sound under a careful opening. It was better out- 
side; no one could hear her there. Was it better? 
The great still world, black and awful, the dark 
heaven, the faint stars and the sleeping city! Jean 
had been used to tender care; she was terrified at 
the sudden sense of desolation, night was hideous 
to her from imaginary evils. She crept down the 
lawn— out the gate. Which way should she go? 
Where could she hide? The city was so far from 
the great East where she would go and live unknown. 
But how was she to go? She looked across the 
river at the lights of the depot. She might go 
there; there would be cheap lodging-houses where 
she could stay until a train left the next day. She 
went down the hill to the bridge, stumbling in the 
darkness so new to her and groping blindly all the 
way. Hist! What was that! Something coming 
behind her — pattering feet — what could it mean? 
She stopped, paralyzed with terror that turned to 
a confused joy when Dicky, her brown dog, broken 
loose from his rope, leaped upon her, wild with de- 
light. 

Dicky, Dicky!” cried Jean, “how could you 
come — what shall I do?” 

He would not be driven back, so Jean went hope- 
lessly on. The idea of her own ultimate starvation 
had not seemed gloomy to her; but the dog— Will’s 
gift — what could she do with him? After all, it 
was fate she could not go back now. 


252 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


She crossed the bridge and went through the 
lighted streets of the city, here she found darkness 
was safety and light danger. Rude men spoke to 
her and followed her; but she drew her hood over 
her face and hurried on, the dog close beside her. 
At last, in an opening, she reached a long stretch 
of railroad tracks and followed them up. Several 
trains were at the depot some just come in, and 
some, she thought, about to start. She went up to 
the depot to inquire; the side door was locked. 
She hesitated a moment undecided. While she 
stood there a crowd of drunken men came around 
the building. Trembling, she shrank into a dark 
corner. Some of them went back to get another 
drink, and the rest went around the depot. Jean 
was hemmed in; what could she do? She started 
timidly back across the tracks to a low region near 
the river called “The bottoms," inhabited chiefly by 
Indians who lived in tents. She went around the 
rows of trains, thinking she might hide in the trees 
by the river till morning, if she could pass through 
that terrible settlement. Just as she was in the 
center of the tracks pistol-shots echoed from the 
lowlands, lights flamed in the tents, and the sound 
of angry voices and cries of pain arose. She hoard 
men running on the wooden platform of the depot. 
What could she do now? She was by a long line 
of cattle-cars; the one behind her had an open door. 
She climbed up into it; Dicky, a trembling fol- 
lower, jumped after her. Happily, in a corner stood 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


253 


some empty barrels. She hid behind these, Dicky 
close to her. She saw lanterns flash across the 
track, and policemen go down to the tents. Soon 
the crowd came back, and went away, taking the 
wounded man and two vicious, dark-browed, would- 
be-murderers to the station house. Suddenly she 
felt a jar — another — a long, rattling jolting of the 
cars. They were in motion! 

The brakeman had not locked that one car, but 
he thought he had. How great a change in life 
often hangs on some slight oversight. Jean was 
glad the train was moving, that fate had helped 
her in this way to escape from bringing sorrow and 
disgrace on the kind people who had been parents 
to her. She had meditated this step from the first 
moment of the awful discovery. She was in a wild, 
excited state, that allowed neither fear nor regret; 
she sat in dumb .misery while the train went on and 
on, how many miles she did not know; but she 
could tell under the stars they were out on the plains. 

They whirled through sleeping settlements, past 
silent ranches, near herds of cattle or horses, and 
by many a lone switch-house, with its lonelier keep- 
er. It grew darker and darker, and she knew it 
must be near morning. Suddenly the train stopped 
at a water tank. A lonely house, little more than 
a hut, stood near the track, and she saw a white- 
haired old man come out of the hut and join the 
group of trainmen going down by the tank. It was 
dark at the rear end of the train where she was and 


254 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


some distance from the tank, which was on the op- 
posite side from the door of the cattle car. The 
lanterns made no light here. Jean had little time 
for thought, but she knew that at daylight she 
would be found out, and either put off the train, or 
if allowed to go on, the story of her flight would 
become known and give more distress to the Mc- 
Clures. She got up, cramped from her long ride, 
Dicky followed at her heels, snuffing the cold night 
air. She jumped lightly to the ground and crept 
down the embankment below the tracks, hiding in 
the shadow. Soon the train went on, and she was 
lost in the lonely place, utterly unprotected, for 
Dicky was not brave. He was not a year old, and 
kept close to her heels, rather to be guarded than 
to guard. There were two tracks, a station house 
and a great water tank like a gigantic barrel on a 
scaffolding. The station house was a queer wooden 
building, one story high, with little L’s extending 
behind it like a train of cars. Near it was a bigger 
house for storage, and further on a driveway for 
cattle. The place she afterwards found out was 
Henderson’s Station, where Henderson, a cattle 
king, shipped his cattle to the East. 

The station house took on a gone-to-bed look. 
The light disappeared in the front windows, and 
appeared again in the L. Jean went up to the 
porch; her light step echoed in the deathlike still- 
ness, and she shrank back behind the corner of the 
house, as she heard footsteps coming. 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


255 


"I thought I heard some one,” muttered a voice. 
I was sure of it.” 

“You’re alius bearin’ noises,” said a surlier voice; 
“tain’t more’n a coyote, ’n they’re uncommon bold 
ter come so nigh.” 

The door opened and the old man Jean had seen 
pass the cattle-car came out on the porch. "Here’s 
a dog,” he cried, in great excitement. "How on 
earth did it get here? A brown setter — a fine ani- 
mal. Poor feller! Come pup! ” he chirped to 
Dicky, who had advanced a few steps when the light 
appeared, but who now stood defiant with a low 
growl that was a surprise to himself. 

"How’d he git here?” asked the surly man; so 
bony and long, he was known along the line as the 
Telegraph Pole. 

"He can’t tell us, ’’said the first speaker. "Pottle, 
you go and get the gun, there is something around 
the house there. I’m blessed if this dog ain’t frozen 
to his place. It’s a mystery.” 

"Gun be ,” said Pottle; the dorg ’ud run ef 

thar was suthin’ thar quicker’n you would, which 
is sayin’ a good deal. Give me the lamp. Here, 
--come outer thar!” 

Hesitating and trembling, Jean came out of the 
friendly shelter of the corner and followed Dicky 
to the porch. The light from the lamp fell on her 
sad, pale face — on her tear-wet blue eyes looking 
at them pleadingly. The two old men gazed at her 
as if she were an apparition. 


256 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


“Where did you come from?” questioned the white- 
haired man, fixing his dim eyes on her in pitying 
admiration. 

“I come from nowhere,” Jean answered faintly; 
“Ido not know where I am going. I only ask you to 
shelter me for a night. I have done wrong — uncon- 
scious wrong — and I am fleeing from it and the mis- 
ery it will bring on those I love." 

They still looked at her in alarmed surprise. 

“Did you come alone?” the old man went on sus- 
piciously. 

“My dog, here,” said Jean, timidly. “Only us 
two,” Here Dicky looked up into her face and 
wagged his tail. 

“From the east or west?” said Pottle. 

“Places are nothing to me, sir; east or west — 
anywhere. I have no country; no home.” 

“Which, being translated,” said the old man with 
a scholarly air, “means you don’t want to tell.” 

“Please, no,” said Jean. “If you will not let me 
have shelter in your house let me sleep in the build- 
ing there; I have been out almost all night. I am 
so cold I cannot lie on the ground.” 

“Shame on us for senseless fools, standing here 
staring at you,” cried the old man. “Come in, 
come in. You took us so by surprise— so sort of 
unnatural and unexpected, as if you’d dropped from 
the clouds. Sleep out doors, indeed? Well, Pd 
like to see you; the pup’s anxious enough to come 
in; I’ll warrant he’s hungry.” 


WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?” QUESTIONED THE WHITE-HAIRED MAN.— P. 256 . 


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TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


257 


He led the way into the station house, to a cosy 
room where there was a dilapidated sofa, a red hot 
stove, rather rusty, a table and two chairs — a small 
fat one like himself, and one tall, somewhat hard, 
easy to associate with Mr. Pottle. 

“Here’s our boudoir, our reception-room, our din- 
ing-room and our kitchen. It’s small but cosy, and 
here. Miss, is a chair that will rest you wonderful, 
though the springs are broken and the coverings 
faded.” 

‘Who’er has travell’d life’s dull round, 

Where’er his stages may have been, 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The warmest welcome in an inn. ’ 

“This isn’t an inn but we’ve a warm welcome 
for ye. Lord bless my soul, a-wandering on these 
dismal plains! ‘The wanderer — 

“Mac, don’t heave no po’try at her: it’ll skeer 
her. Where’s the tea?” interrupted Pottle. 

“I’ll get it,” said Mac with wonderful agility in 
one so old. “I’m cook; Pottle’s telegrapher. His 
mind is above victuals; but he couldn’t telegraph 
without a stomach and something in it. Lord, 
what a wonderful thing the telegraph is — tick, tick, 
and you’re telling folks thousands of miles away 
what you’re doing right here. Now don’t look 
scared, pretty, we ain’t going to telegraph about 
you. We believe you needed to be hid or you 
wouldn’t have hid yourself. Now take off your 
bonnet and drink a cup of this tea. Look at the 


17D 


258 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


dog! He’s just set on having it. He’d drink it 
hot as ’tis. What’s the matter with him?” 

“He’s sitting up for it. He’ll ask for it,” said 
Jean, with some animation. 

Dicky had climbed into Pottle’s chair, and was 
sitting up very straight and solemn on his hind legs. 

"The mussiful man is mussiful to the dorg, ter 
foller Mac’s style o’ talk,” smiled Pottle, bringing 
in a pan of milk and setting it before the dog. 

"Pottle’s got a cowand ten hens,” Mac explained 
with pride, drawing up the sofa and beginning to 
set the table. "His hens is all laying now, and 
Pll make you a fine omelet. Don’t say you’re not 
hungry; the pup ate as if he’d not had a meal for 
a month, and I don’t know how long you’ve been 
without food." 

"Dicky always gobbles,” said Jean. 

"Dicky, eh? Nice name — nice pup. Now I feel 
you’re not wanting to tell us your name, though 
the pup’s did slip out, and we’ll not ask it. Pot- 
tle and me is old philosophers; we’ve retired from 
the world and become hermits, we find this station 
just as good as a cave in the woods for that pur- 
pose, and healthy victuals better than roots and 
water — the hermit bill of fare. Hermits always 
sheltered travelers, asked no questions, sent in no 
bill, that’s what we do; as long as you stay you’ll 
be welcome.” 

He made her take a seat at the table, and he 
hung up her cloak with much care on a nail, re- 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


259 


marking that "it looked as if it belonged there." 
Jean did eat with a relish. For weeks she had 
barely tasted food; but the ride, the keen bracing 
wind off the prairie, and the kind old faces and 
kind words made her want to eat. Dicky was not 
neglected either, as for the entertainers, this epi- 
sode in their lonely life was like a dream. They 
could hardly believe the golden- haired girl in the 
black dress was a reality — and that she asked their 
poor hospitality. Pottle would cheerfully have 
wrung the necks of his ten prized fowls if she would 
have eaten of their remains; while Mac took a pro- 
prietary interest in her from the first, assuming a 
fatherly manner. Pottle was a bachelor, but Mac 
had been married several times, and knew the sen- 
sibilities of the softer sex. 

After supper Mac said with great delicacy their 
house boasted of but few apartments. There was a 
little room in the L, but in sad disorder. If their 
honored guest would consent to occupy the sofa that 
night, and put up with blankets and a buffalo skin, 
she would confer a favor on Pottle and himself. 
Jean assented gratefully, very sorry she had caused 
them so much trouble. Pottle made up the sofa 
into a comfortable couch, and after filling the stove 
with coal both the old men went out and left her, 
going breakfastless the next morning, for she slept 
late and they did not wish to disturb her. 

They fixed up the little room for her the next 
day, and she sent to Chicago by the train for clot^ 


26 o 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


ing, for she had money with her. When the pack- 
age came directed to Mac, the old man said he felt 
quite like a family man again. 

The days slipped by and Jean stayed at Hender- 
son’s Station, the old men would have been loth 
indeed to let her go. They soon saw from her in- 
nocent talk she had no object in going East or West 
— "only to get away to hide," she would tell them; 
they hoped to keep her with them till the wrong 
was righted and her people, whom they knew must 
love and mourn her, would find her at last safe and 
well. 

Dicky liked Henderson’s Station. There were 
wide plains to roam over, prairie dogs to chase, 
plenty of food and his dear mistress to play with 
him. Still Dicky dreaded the trains that on their 
way to the East and West, stopped at the tank to 
water; the great engines, like black monsters, were 
terrifying to him, especially the red, evil eye at 
night, glaring down the track. Jean shared Dick’s 
avoidance of the trains; thus it was that McClure 
in his distracted search, or his agents, never saw 
Jean or her dog on their journeys to the East, and, 
disappointed, back to the West. 

Jean was no idler; she knew how to cook, and she 
set a better table than Mac with less lavish waste. 
Then she fed the hens, hunted for eggs, kept the 
house in order and took long rambles across the 
plains with happy Dick. How quiet those plains 
were — how burning, in the noonday sun — how still 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


261 


and monotonous stretching to the horizon’s blue 
line, and never a human figure to break the quiet. 

Once in a while a wandering herd of cattle was 
seen far, far off. Henderson had not been shipping 
stock lately and the station was lonelier than ever. 
Of course there was a fitful burst of life when the 
panting train stopped and when the train men 
jumped off to talk while they watered the engine; 
then off they would go and the rumble of the train 
would die away in an instant. At night the howl 
of the coyote or fiercer cry of the gray wolf sounded 
across the space of land setting the dog barking 
fiercely — that was all. 

How different life had become to the old men. 
Before she came they smoked their pipes and went 
to bed, often sitting hours without speaking a word. 
They never saw a newspaper or wanted to see one. 
They were men of painful past, who had hidden 
themselves here to rest and be forgotten. Mac was 
a man of seventy. Pottle was not more than sixty, 
but his ragged gray beard, his long hair, and his 
hollow eyes made him seem much older. What his 
life had been no one ever knew. Jean made'ahome 
of the station house, and brightened it with the 
sunshine of her sweet presence; she unearthed cur- 
tains of pretty chintz from one of Pottle’s trunks 
(he had evidently been housekeeping once) stored 
in the warehouse; she washed them, and curtained 
the windows, covered the chairs and sofa, and a 
box she liked to sit on by the low window. How 


262 


TWO WESTERN HERMITS 


neat she was, such a little housekeeper, and how 
childlike and trusting. They were sure from the 
first she had done no wrong; as they knew her bet- 
ter, they felt she could not do a wrong. They were 
honorable, these old men, and they never sought to 
find out her story or her name. Some how from 
Mac’s outspoken admiration they got to calling 
her “Pretty,” and the name seeming appropriate, 
they settled upon it. It was a great pleasure for 
them to see her run with her dog over the plains 
and come back rosy and bright with sparkling eyes. 

“Pretty has hardly a shadow in those eyes now,” 
Mac would say, in anxious questioning, but Pottle 
would answer, taking his pipe in his bony hand: 

“Don’t be too sure, Mac; that gal’s heart ain’t 
healed yit. But she’s young, and the life in her 
can’t be crushed. If she could forgit, we could 
keep her alius; but thar’s suthin’ back on’t all; ’n 
that,” he said, solemnly, “ain’t fur us ter bother 
on; ain’t our affair, Mac. It’s only fur us to keep 
an’ guard her till they comes for her, whoever they 
is, an’ ef t’want selfish and agin the gal’s own hap- 
piness, I’d wish they’d be powerful long in cornin’." 


CHAPTER XIX 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 

Jean left a pitiful note of farewell, this was all 
McClure found when he went to her room to call 
her the morning after she had fled. He was nearly 
frantic; he suspected Miss Wallace was in collusion 
with her. He sent for detectives and was closeted 
with them all day. He wanted to keep the matter 
quiet, for he was determined to find her at any 
cost. He sought the senator, who was making his 
preparations for departure. The senator did not 
know; he had no information to give, nor could he 
tell, or at least would not tell, what that sentence 
in her tear blotted note meant: 

"I would disgrace you if I stayed. I am better 
gone and forgotten.” 

The senator did not fulfill his threat to Jean. 
He hated himself, Denver and her; but his hate for 
her was miserable unsatisfied love. He gave orders 
if a strange, wild, dark woman sought him at the 
hotel she should be arrested. She was a dangerous 
lunatic who had designs on his life. The Senator 
was going to leave Denver. His trunk was packed 
and his ticket purchased. While he sat at his din- 
ner one night, a few days after Jean’s disappearance 
263 


264 ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 

a strange scene was being enacted across the river; 
and his life was so bound up in those events, that 
it almost seemed he must have felt some presenti- 
ment. 

At half-past five one April afternoon, McClure, 
his wife and Miss Franklin went over to confer with 
Miss Wallace, whose tearful sympathy meant much 
to them now they knew she was innocent of Jean’s 
flight. She was not well so they went up to the 
chamber that looked out on the stone mansion. 

“The house is like a tomb” said McClure cough- 
ing huskily. “We’ve eaten nothing all day. I go 
to find my wife — she is crying over Jean’s photo- 
graph; I hunt up Miss Franklin, and she is weeping 
over Jean’s letters; then I go to Jean’s empty room, 
where I sit and think of her. I would rather she 
were dead and at rest than out in the world so 
strange to her, so hard to an innocent, penniless 
girl. I can not blame Jean, as some might; for I 
can see how she went away in dread and fear, 
trembling and scared, such a tender thing, so fond, 
so loving, her little heart almost broken — yet her 
brave, faithful soul telling her— God, how falsely! 
— it was for our good. The dog’s gone, too," he 
went on, mournfully — “the dog the young fellow 
gave her. They were so happy. Will and Jean." 

They sat and talked of Jean, McClure wandering 
aimlessly around the room. 

“Why, there is the doctor coming," said Miss- 
Wallace. “I did not send for him. Can he know 
anything of Jean?" 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


265 


Sam opened the door in answer to the doctor^ s 
ring and to his indignant surprise the doctor in- 
sisted on going right up stairs. 

"Do you know anything of Jean?” asked Mrs. 
McClure, when the doctor, looking rather flurried 
came in. 

"Not a thing; how should I? She’s out of my 
hands now. Quite well when I last saw her riding 
with Miss Wallace.” ^ 

"Then you didn’t come here for that,” said Mc- 
Clure. 

"That I don’t understand," answered the doctor, 
testily. "I came flere because Miss Wallace’s maid. 
Rose McCord, told me this morning that I was 
wanted here at half past five. Of course, if I’m 
not wanted it is simple enough to go home.” 

"We’re a little upset," said McClure unsteadily; 
"Jean has left us. She wrote me a note begging me 
not to look for her, and to forgive her. That’s why 
we are so unlike ourselves. Doctor, we came here 
to talk to Miss Wallace about her. Miss Wallace 
loved her too. ” 

"I know that," said the doctor, a puzzled look on 
his face. "It is a strange thing to me how much 
Jean looks like Miss Wallace. The same eyes, the 
mouth, the turn of the chin. I was struck by it 
from the start.” 

"How strange,” said Miss Wallace faintly. 

"She did,” cried McClure. "That’s why Miss 
Wallace’s face was so familiar to me. A trick of 


266 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


likeness is a queer thing, though,” he sighed. 

“Who were Jean’s parents? She is not your own 
child, I think?” the doctor asked. 

“The world may know. It will in time; I’ll not 
keep it from you, sir,” said McClure, "nor from 
Miss Wallace. I want you to remember that I did 
not care about her birth, nor love her the less for 
it, nor would I hide it, as if I thought it would hurt 
her. She was the miserable little child left by the 
Johnsons who were lynched at Desperation Gulch. 
This is why Curtis came on here, and broke her 
engagement with his son, and why Jean left our 
home. She thought, gentle heart, it would dis- 
grace us if she stayed.” 

“Unhappy Jean,” sighed Miss Wallace; “but 
who could think the less of her? Such a noble, 
true-hearted girl! Oh, if the past could be buried 
and no evil hands drag its unhappiness back to 
life I ” 

“The past is oftener a comforter than an enemy,” 
said the doctor, thoughtfully. “I do not believe 
that Jean was those — ” 

Just then there was a quick knock and before any 
one could say “Come in”. Rose McCord opened the 
door. Close behind her followed a timid little 
woman in shabby clothes, who shrank from the sur- 
prised looks of the occupants of the room and sat 
down near the door. 

“Well, Rose McCord,” said the doctor sternly, 
“I’d like to know why you brought me here?” 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


267 


“You will soon find out,” Rose answered calmly. 

She was dressed for traveling, and had her bon- 
net on — even her gloves. She laid a shawl and 
veil on a chair, advancing to a table in the middle 
of the room. Miss Franklin and McClure were 
sitting on one side of the hearth, Mrs. McClure and 
Miss Wallace on the' other. The doctor was stand- 
ing back of Miss Wallace’s chair. 

‘T have come to make a statement,” said Rose 
steadil}^ — “that I wish you to believe and rely on as 
if I were on my death-bed. I have proofs enough to 
justify what I shall say; and I want it understood 
that nothing but genuine pity and admiration for an 
innocent person wrongfully accused has caused me 
to tell what would never have been known. I have 
unlocked my lips, knowing you will hate and de- 
spise me, justly, too. I am ready to depart the 
moment my task is finished, and I trust to your 
kind hearts that you will not detain me.” 

“Are you quite yourself. Rose?” cried Miss Wal- 
lace, anxiously: “you have been strangely excited 
and unnatural for a week past.” 

“Your servant has no right then, to trouble or 
anguish. Miss Wallace?” cried Rose bitterly. 

“Rose, you are cruel. Your life has had no care. 
Who has been more comfortably housed and cared 
for than you? I would have given you money 
enough to make you independent any time you 
wished to leave me. This, after our life-long friend- 
ship, is inexplicable.” 


268 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


“You will understand me better in a few mo- 
ments, Miss Wallace,” said Rose, sadly. “You will 
see that two women may live together long years, 
and yet be as far apart in their hearts as if they 
were strangers to each other. Is there any one here 
who w’ill write down what I say?” 

“Pm a poor penman,” the doctor muttered. 

“Pm not," asserted Miss Franklin; “I taught 
writing for years. I can calm my agitation and 
write what you say plainly, Rose, for I feel that it 
relates to our poor Jean.” 

“I will tell you what I want written,” said Rose. 
She looked at Miss Wallace as if gathering courage 
to go on. “If I were to ask you, Virginia Wallace, 
to be silent when I am through, to neither blame 
nor reproach me, but let me go in peace, would you 
promise it?” 

“I will,” said Miss Wallace gently. “My poor 
Rose — our friendship has lasted too long for me 
ever to feel bitterness toward you.” 

“You may think different when I am through,” 
Rose went on coldly, “but at all events I have your 
promise there shall be so scene when my story 
is told. I will only say a few words about myself,” 
said Rose, calmly, standing a little back from the 
table; “but I want you to comprehend, if you can, 
the bitterness and degradation of my life. I was 
the child of a poor farmer in Ohio, who had a 
small, unproductive farm, twelve children, and a 
shrewish, sickly wife. We were bitterly poor, but 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


269 


I never minded our poverty; all I loved was my 
books, and the few terms I went to the district 
school were the happiest days of my life. We lived 
some miles from the village, and I went there sel- 
dom but I remembered the large square white house 
half hidden by big elm trees where Judge Wallace 
lived. I remembered seeing a fair-haired lady walk- 
ing under the trees with a child. I went there with 
my father once and recollect that she admired me 
— said I had such black eyes and red cheeks asking 
father how many children he had, and if he could 
spare one. Not long after that the lady died, and 
father went to Judge Wallace. The end of the 
matter was, I was taken by the judge to be little 
Miss Virginia’s maid. I was taken from my home, 
my ambition, to be a lifelong servant. The chil- 
dren in thq village used to call me Miss Virginia’s 
white slave, and taunt me. My life was an hourly 
torment, and I hated with bitter hate the child I 
had to care for. Years went on, and I had a lover, 
Tom Brooks. He won my love and all that love 
means, but he dreaded to marry me, for there was 
ill will even then toward me among the village young 
folks and he knew he would be ridiculed. They 
were poor, those farming people; but they were 
free and independent; they worked for wages, but 
they were not bound out to serve as I was and they 
despised me; while I in the fine house, clothed as 
they never could be, knew I was degraded in their 
eyes. Then Judge Wallace came West. Tom 


270 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


Brooks went with the party. He grew careless to- 
ward me. He wanted to put off our marriage till 
he was rich. All this time I hated Virginia Wal- 
lace, and one night when we camped on the plains 
in our wagons, I listened to her and Roy McDonald 
— another servant the judge had adopted. I heard 
enough to convince me they loved each other. I 
knew that here I could revenge myself on her, and 
make the proud old judge suffer as nothing else 
could. I held my peace till we were in Denver; 
then,” said Rose, looking into the fire and with- 
drawing her eyes from Miss Wallace’s pale face, “I 
told the judge his daughter loved Roy MacDonald. 
There was a dreadful quarrel and the lad was sent 
away. He joined the army and won good opinions 
for his bravery. Chance brought him back to Den- 
ver and threw the lovers together. They were mar- 
ried and I was a witness. The old clergyman who 
married them died on his way East, there was noth- 
ing to tell of her marriage but myself and the cer- 
tificate, and we failed when the time came. Mac- 
Donald went East to fight against the South and 
while he was gone a terrible change came over Miss 
Wallace, she grew sadder and more retiring than 
ever. She told me what was the matter, but I had 
guessed it. A woman here at a dinner party roused 
the judge’s suspicions by asking if his daughter 
was married. He questioned me; I acted as if I 
knew something and dared not tell. He flew in a 
rage to his daughter, and found out the truth. I 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


271 


had written to MacDonald. He came back; but he 
and her brother met first, and both were killed. 
Miss Wallace fell in a dead faint. You all know 
the story; it is whispered even now to new people 
who come here, by the settlers who knew it, and 
who delight in raking up old scandals. That night 
a child was born — a girl. The mother was uncon- 
scious, and did not know anything for weeks. The 
doctor here was present.” 

‘T was. A girl child, and the left foot marked 
with a red birth mark like a splotch of blood,” said 
the doctor. 

"When MacDonald was shot,” Rose continued 
steadily, the glowing eyes on the fire, “he fell at 
Miss Wallace’s feet, and his blood dripped on them 
and on her dress.” 

“And the child,” cried Miss Wallace, in a hoarse, 
unnatural voice, great drops of perspiration on her 
forehead. ^ “It died?” 

“You thought so,” said Rose. “The doctor knew 
better, but the judge made him be silent. I gave 
it to a woman, Mrs. Clark, and she is here,” turn- 
ing to the pale little woman in black who had been 
a terrified spectator. 

“You remember?” 

“Yessum,” answered Mrs. Clark, in a scarcely 
audible voice. “My own little baby was dead. 
Miss Rose brought me this, and paid me enough to 
make me an’ husband comforable for a year. We 
took it East. Please, marm, if Pd knowed what 


272 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


had been done — ’'said the little woman, tearfully 
looking at Miss Wallace— “I’d brought the little 
innercent to you, for it was a sweeter baby as I 
never saw.” 

“I believe you,” said Miss Wallace brokenly. 

"The child had the birth-mark, did she not?" 
asked the doctor. 

“Yes sir,” said Mrs. Clark. 

“Really, madam,” said the doctor contritely, “the 
judge and I believed the child dead. We knew it 
was given to Mrs. Clark; but a year afterward a 
letter came to the judge from a Mrs. Johnson, say- 
ing the child was dead.” 

“What did you do with the child, Mrs. Clark?” 
McClure asked. 

“I kep’ it a year, Mister," hesitated the little 
woman; “then I give it ’cordin’ to derections of 
Miss McCord ter a Missus Johnson, her sister." 

“I kept Miss Wallace marriage certificate, I de- 
nied that the marriage had taken place,” said Rose 
taking up the thread of her story with an unmoved 
face. “The old Judge believed me; I told Miss 
Wallace he would not believe I was present at her 
secret marriage, but I really never mentioned it to 
him. Well, Mrs. Johnson was my sister. She and 
her husband came to Denver when the child was 
some two years old. They staid here but a short 
time. At the home of old MacDonald, who was 
grave-digger here then, they saw a girl of twelve, 
whom I persuaded them to take to the Gulch with 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


273 


them. Elisha Johnson was the nephew of the old 
miner in the Gulch known as “Hard Luck John- 
son,” and came out to work his claim. This old 
MacDonald was the father of Roy MacDonald, as 
I found out from the old man, though he never 
knew Roy was his son. MacDonald was a good- 
for-nothing man with low tendencies, he deserted 
his wife in Scotland, and came to this country. 
Miss Wallace will remember hearing of an unhappy 
lady who taught music in Rocky Creek, who came 
to this country in search of her husband. This Mary 
MacDonald, murdered by the Johnsons, was the 
child of old MacDonald and a woman whom he had 
deceived into marriage. I never knew but that she 
was a decent woman. You all know the story of 
ihe lynching and the child’s fate. Perhaps you 
don’t know. Miss Wallace, that this child, your 
husband’s half sister, is buried at his feet in the 
old hill burying ground. MacDonald did it from 
some fanc3L You know this child of the Johnsons, 
called Jane, her life at the Home here, her adoption 
by the McClures. She is your own child. Miss 
Wallace, the girl you have loved as Jean McClure.” 

There was no sound in the room. They were 
silent, devouring every word that came from the 
lips of the strangely calm woman. 

“I tried to hate Jean,” Rose went on. “She was 
beautiful and happy. I found out who she was, 
because Senator Brooks — the Tom Brooks who 
deceived and fooled me for years, and when be 

I8D 


274 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


got rich fled from me— this Brooks loved Jean. I 
knew he and Curtis were foremost in the lynching 
of the Johnsons, and I knew Curtis would never 
let his son marry their child. I thought, too. Brooks 
would turn from her if he knew. He promised to 
marry me if I would break off her marriage with 
young Curtis, I did so; Brooks deceived me, he 
never meant to carry out his promise. He loved 
her more than ever, and would have married her in 
spite of all. No matter how hard I tried, I could 
not hate the girl, low as I brought her she seemed 
as pure and sweet as if it never could have been. 
At last I made up my mind you should know all. 
Have you written this?” she added, turning to Miss 
Franklin. 

"Yes,” sobbed the old lady, “all that is necessary. 
Mrs. Clark has signed here what she knows, the 
doctor what he knows, and here is a place for your 
name.” 

Rose wrote her name with steady hand; then she 
turned to Miss Wallace. 

“Mrs. MacDonald, ’’she said quietly, using the new 
name readily, “here is your marriage certificate. I 
have hidden it all these years. Here is a bank 
book; all the money you have given me since I 
have been a traitor to you is here, save that ex- 
pended on your child. To comprehend how much 
I loved Brooks, remember I was the owner of his 
millions, and I kept silent. If you wish to know 
how bitterly I hated you and your station, so far 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


275 


above me, your haughty pride, your ladylike soft- 
ness and beauty, look back on the misery of your 
child and your own broken life, sunless and miser- 
able. Live again the long years of sorrow when 
your father hated you, and when he died unforgiv- 
ing. I feel no regrets, I say none. The work is 
done; the tower I built by long years of secret 
power and evil design is fallen by my own hand. 
I have redeemed a promise to Jean that I would 
help her, and I have kept it.” 

The others would have spoken, but Miss Wal- 
lace stopped them. Rose was pinning on her shawl 
with steady hands; her face coldly calm. 

"Will you take some money for your journey, 
Rose?” Miss Wallace asked gently. She held- the 
old yellow paper in her hand, her marriage certifi- 
cate, that would have appeased her father and 
righted her in the eyes of everybody who had be- 
lieved the stories against her; the paper this woman 
had hidden, and with fiendish cruelty had forced 
her to bear disgrace and heart-break so many years. 

“Can you with that paper in you hand say this to 
me?” cried Rose. 

“Words could not express the bitterness cf my 
sorrow,” said Miss Wallace. “Your own heart shall 
be your accuser. There is too much misery at your 
door — too many deaths — too terrible an account — 
for me to add vain reproaches to it.” 

“I have no heart, no conscience; I never had,” 
said Rose. “I had hate, revenge and love for one 


276 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


man. All these passions were for him, for his in- 
terests. For him I would still have suffered and 
sinned. You will find, Mr. McClure, that your Jean 
is Mrs. McDonald’s child. You, no doubt, have 
noticed her foot. I beg you will not speak. It 
cannot affect me, nor anything Mrs. McClure might 
say. The Doctor will help you to prove my words. 
My sister, Mrs. Johnson, had children, but all died 
at birth. She was insane at times, and it was bet- 
ter they died. My mother is in a mad-house now, 
and one of my brothers committed suicide in a fit 
of despondency. We are a mad race. Lay my 
crimes to that, if you have pity; if you have none 
let me be as evil to you as I am— as I have been.” 

‘‘Where is MacDonald now?” said Miss Wallace, 
hastily. Rose had picked up her veil and was mov- 
ing toward the door. 

‘‘I do not know. He disappeared years ago, a 
broken down old man,Tiating himself, hating every- 
body, and despised by all. So says Mrs. Julia 
Mullen, who used to keep house for him, and was 
a woman of bad reputation; now she has married a 
rich man — a lucky miner. You know of her — Mrs. 
Blinn — though I fancy if you asked her of her old 
companion you would meet with a chilly answer. 
Nor do I know where Jean is, Mr. McClure, though 
you are whispering to the doctor I may have made 
away with her. I know Senator Brooks threatened 
in his interview with her, that he would tell her 
story, and people would avoid and hate her, and 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


277 


the disgrace would react on you who had sheltered 
her. I think she ran away; and the dog must have 
followed her, for I saw her shut him in the shed* 
that night to prevent him making a noise, when 
she crept out of the house, he must have broken 
loose and followed her.” 

“I think, Mrs. MacDonald, we ought to keep this 
woman here. Her crimes should be punished. There 
must be a redress for you for all the trouble she has 
caused,” the Doctor insisted. 

"No, I have caused misery enough,” said Miss 
Wallace, firmly. "My sad story shall not be known 
in courts of justice; revenge cannot bring the dead 
to life. Rose carries within her something worse 
than the law’s punishment, I tell her to go in peace. 

I believe you, Rose; my heart tells me Jean is my 
child. When we find her, when I kiss her sweet 
face and shelter her in my arms, all my bitterness 
to you will be gone. I know we will find her. This 
new happiness cannot have come to me only to be 
taken away.” 

‘T trust to your word, Mrs. MacDonald,” said 
Rose, stopping at the door. “Do not blame Mrs. 
Clark; she did not know.” The poor little woman 
in the shabby dress was sobbing bitterly. 

“I had no such idea,” said Miss Wallace, kindly, 
laying a protecting hand on the little woman’s 
shoulder. “I will repay Mrs. Clark for her care 
and love for my child. She shall never want for I 
know she was kind to the helpless baby.” 


278 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


"Indeed I were," sobbed Mrs. Clark; "it e’nmost 
killed me ter give the pretty dear up.” 

"That is all,” said Rose; "you will never see me 
again; but. Miss Virginia,” she went on wistfully, 
a look of passionate yearning on her face that had 
suddenly grown haggard and pinched — "when you 
would loathe me, when you could almost curse me, 
try to remember my tortured heart. If I was the 
instrument of murder, why was I made so? Why 
was the curse of life, and the power to be evil given 
me? Life is like a forest; some must die to make 
room for the vigorous growth of the rest. If all 
trees lived, the oaks would be stunted, the pines 
warped and twisted to catch the sun, the maples 
and birch would wither and die. I have seen for- 
ests blasted by a growth that was disease. Are not 
the dead stepping stones? There are places to be 
filled, and they are filled. If all the good lived 
this would not be the world, but heaven. Life is 
a thorny path; those who die at the beginning are 
not the sufferers; but it will be sunny for some 
amid all the thorns; there are good as well as evil 
travelers. It is old, though, as the hills, that both* 
must go their way; the bad bad the good good. 
The sun breaks through your dark clouds — while I 
go out into the thicket of thorns where the end is 
death.” 

They heard her go down the stairs, call a carriage 
that had been waiting for her and the rattle of 
wheels die away. Whither she went they knew not 


ROSE MAKES A REVELATION 


279 


nor cared. There was left to gather up the tangled 
threads of life, freed from a grievous snarl. To 
find with all the force of love and purpose a blue- 
eyed heart-broken maiden driven into hiding by 
her shame, the shadow of her birth that they who 
sought her, knew now was all a heartless lie. 


CHAPTER XX 


ROSE M’CORD’S revenge 

The senator had dined. The menu was excellenv, 
the wine delightful. He felt in an easy, medita- 
tive mood, disposed to think the world not so bad 
after all, and to rebuke himself gently for being 
weak enough to compromise his dignity in the Mc- 
Clure affair. It was a foolish act, and he was too 
old for foolish acts. 

“Besides,” said the senator complacently, “I have 
neglected my business and the affairs of my constit- 
uents who elected me to the United States Senate.” 
Here the senator’s voice had a tinge of laudable 
pride. “The United States Senate! ” he repeated 
again. It had a rich, melodious sound. “I go back 
to-night. ” 

The senator stretched his legs out before the grate 
in his handsomely furnished private parlor, and 
leaned back in his easy chair. “Back to-night to 
Washington at 9:30 — and the widow Veasey is un- 
deniably attractive. Though dark women — well, I 
don’t fancy them.” 

The senator ceased to speak his thoughts aloud, 
for the remembrance of one dark woman was un- 
pleasant. His eye fell carelessly on the heavy cur- 
280 


ROSE MCCORD’ S REVENGE 


281 


lain at the window. Certainly one moved. He 
started in his chair and looked again. This time 
the curtain did move. 

'Tt is probably Rose,” he thought. "She is hid- 
den there; I was a fool not to have thought of it, 
a great fool. I wonder if she can shoot. She 
would hit me before I could reach the bell rope. 
I’ll remain cool and use strategy.” He looked 
pensively in the fire, a moment later the curtain 
was thrown aside and Rose stepped into the room. 

“I have waited for you,” she said calml}', her 
face composed, her eyes natural and quiet. "I 
know you had ordered me to be arrested if I came. 
You did not know one of the chambermaids liere 
was Mrs. Green, 3^onr witness at McClure’s. She 
let me in here with a skeleton key.” 

“Mrs. Green must be looked after; she is a dan- 
gerous servant,” said the senator, laying a gentle 
stress on the last word. “I’ll speak of it at the 
office.” 

He looked to see if his words had affected her 
but she coolly sat down in a chair on the other 
side of the hearth, and began removing her gloves. 

“You seem preparing to make a long call. Rose. 
I regret it, but in an hour or so I take my leave of 
Denver forever. I can entertain you a few minutes, 
however, for the sake of ^Auld lang syne.’” 

“You are very kind,” smiled Rose, equally agree- 
able. “But I also leave this evening for the East, 
for Washington, and with you. What was it Ruth 
said? ‘Whither thou goest, I will go.*’’ 


282 


ROSE m’CORD’S revenge 


"Don't you think, Rose, that you are making 
yourself an annoyance,” snarled the senator; "1 
might say nuisance?” 

"You forget your promise to me the night I told 
yon who Jean McClure was.” 

"My dear Rose,” said the senator, mildly, "1 
really must beg your pardon; I had forgotten the 
whole matter. Now, of course, in the retired sta- 
tion in which your life has been spent, you know 
little of the great world, and I am forced to tell 
you what otherwise you might see for yourself, that 
a public man makes promises by the score without 
the intention of keeping one. Why, really, in my 
campaign before my election to the Senate I was 
rich in promises — I was lavish, prodigal with them; 
I had multitudes of faithful henchmen bound to me 
by expectations. I own my election — did I remem- 
ber the promises? I did not remember even the 
names of the faithful. I knew they were no longer 
necessary, and their expectations were a matter of 
no moment to me. I treated you. Rose, as one of 
my constituents before election in the McClure mat- 
ter; I regard you now as a wardworker after elec- 
tion. ” 

"I understand you; I was mad that night, or 1 
would not have believed you. My only excuse was” 
—Here Rose went up to the fire and held her thin, 
powerful hands to the blaze — they were cold and 
trembled slightly — "I loved you. I could have died 
for love of you!” 


ROSE M’CORD’s revenge 283 

“I really pity you, Rose,” he said kindly; "I do 
indeed. ” 

He watched her standing there, a tall, well- 
shaped woman in black, strong and hardy, with 
almost masculine breadth of shoulders. He noted 
her black hair in its tidy knot was thickly streaked 
with gray; her brilliant color was gone; that she 
was pale and haggard, and her beautiful, dark eyes 
sunken. He felt pity for her, and his own unworthi- 
ness. He wondered if life would have been hap- 
pier for both of them if he had been true, and mar- 
ried her in the old days. 

"I came to you to-night,” said Rose, looking into 
the fire with steadfast gaze, “knowing all is over — 
that my hopes were senseless and useless. I know 
it; you need not tell me. I came to look at you for 
the last time as one goes to the bedside of a dying 
friend. I am done with you, Tom Brooks. I have 
only one duty to perform. Shall I tell you who 
Jean McClure really is?” 

“We have had enough on that subject,” replied 
the senator coldly. “It has no further interest for 
me. ” 

“But you shall know; I will tell you, for it will 
be all known to morrow. ” 

She repeated the sad story she had told Virginia 
Wallace. 

“Will can marry her, then,” said the senator, 
gloomily. “Doubtless she is with him.” 

“No; he is gone, the McClures don’t know where; 


2^4 


ROSE M’ cord’s revenge 


and Jean is gone, but I know where she is,” said 
Rose, with an air of triumph. "I will restore her 
to her friends, and tell her and them the story.” 

“She will be an heiress now to great wealth,” 
cried the senatojr, eagerly, “so beautiful, her mother 
a lady — and you know where she is, Rose? Ah, I 
do remember — she is like Virginia Wallace. Fool! 
that I never thought of it, and outwitted you. To 
think as I have all this time she was the Johnson’s 
child, and suffering for years lest she should dis- 
pute our fortune. You made a fool of me when you 
told me Jean- McClure’s name was Johnson. That 
revenge should have satisfied you.” 

‘T could have made out to the end she was the 
Johnson child,” said Rose coolly. "What was to 
prevent her and me from having that mine? I could 
have proved I was Mrs. Johnson’s sister, and Jean 
her child. The people of Denver would have righted 
us — even in a border town there is a love of justice 
in every heart. You and Curtis stole the claim, but 
you were let do it because no one came forward who 
owned it. Public feeling would have lynched you 
two men, if I had brought the child from that Home, 
told how she was treated there, and showed the 
scar on her forehead from Curtis’ blow. There is 
always a revulsion of public sentiment after an act 
of summary justice or injustice. We could have 
profited by it.” 

‘‘You’re a strange woman,” muttered the senator, 
uneasily. 


ROSE m’cORD’s revenge 


285 

"I loved you -even now when I, and I only, know 
where Jean McClure is, I would tell you that you 
might take her home in triumph, tell her story and, 
prove it by the papers I have deposited in a bank 
here. You would rise on my downfall. She might 
then like you in time for the great good you had 
brought her.” 

“Why not have done this yourself?” asked the 
senator, suspiciously. 

“Because I could not bear Miss Wallace’s grief 
and bitter reproaches. I thought to tell the old 
doctor who knew of Jean’s birth, but he is cold and 
haughty to me. He always suspected I was not 
true to Miss Wallace. I have given you the facts; 
tell them now if you will; but without me you can 
never find the girl, for McClure and a host of detec- 
tives have searched in vain. ” 

“How do I know but this is a trap?” 

“By this,” Rose pulled the curtain aside and 
threw open the blinds. Down in the street below 
was a carriage. The driver was holding his horses 
in readiness to start; on the box with him was a 
policeman, whose bright buttons and star of author- 
ity shone in the light from the gas jet on the cor- 
ner. 

“Go in that carriage with me to a house three 
miles from the city. We will find her there. You 
certainly do not fear me with those two men to 
guard you,” said Rose contemptuously. 

“No; but; they may be your confederates.” 


286 


ROSE m’CORD’S revenge 


"Get your own policemen then, whoever you 
will; I will not tell you where the girl is. You 
would not find her even then. She knows my sig- 
nals; she trusts me, thinking me her aunt. See, 
here are our tickets for California; we were going 
to leave, to-morrow. ’’ 

Rose showed two genuine tickets for the next 
day. 

"You know how easily I can influence people," 
Rose sneered. "See, I burn these tickets up, I 
trust you. Give me your ticket east; I will leave 
to-night on the half-past nine train. You will stay 
and take Jean to McClure’s." 

The senator hesitated, but a warm glow of hope 
thrilled him. If this were true he might win Jean 
yet. He handed Rose his ticket and looked at his 
watch. "We must be there and get back in an 
hour and twenty minutes, or you will be too late," 
he said. 

"It will not take a half hour to go there if the 
horses are swift. You are armed?" 

"Yes," said the senator, coloring. 

"I have carried a pistol for years," said Rose; 'T 
suppose to shoot you. See, I lay it on the table. 
I have no knife concealed about me. Are you sat- 
isfied?" 

"I still distrust you," answered the senator, "for 
I don’t understand you. [ will hire another car- 
riage, send for another policeman, then we will go." 

"As you please. Two policemen if you would feel 
safer. " 


ROSE M’CORD’s revenge 287 

They passed down the marble stairs to the vesti- 
bule, Rose ahead. Brooks had become cautious; 
but all his mad love for Jean had come bapk. He 
would find her and win her this time, before the 
news should reach Will Curtis. The odds he knew 
were against him, but there was more excitement 
in the pursuit. He sent a bell-boy, the freckled 
one, for a carriage and a policemen; the boy went 
out and engaged the policeman who had been wait- 
ing all the time, but another carriage, giving the 
waiting man his pay, which the lady had sent. 

“They’re a queer lot, them two,’’ said the boy to 
the hackman; “Pveseen the gal up here afore him, 
’n my eye but they^re goin’ off in a hack now! 
These ’ere big-bug senators is hard us’n whan 
they’re out West, like the rest of ’em. It’s the 
light air,” finished the small boy with a hideous 
chuckle. “I’m onto ’em.’’ 

The senator drank a glass of brandy, and chatted 
a few moments with a number of his friends in the 
rotunda. He told them he had concluded to remain 
some days longer, and mentioned to the clerk he 
would stay until the next night, perhaps later. 
Then he went out to the carriage. He helped Rose 
in and invited the policeman in also. 

“We are going to find a young lady and restore 
her to her parents,’’ said the senator pompously. 

“Miss McCord, tell the driver where to go.” 

“Capitol Hill, old house near the cemetery,” Rose 
directed; “drive there. Stop in the road; the house 


288 


ROSE m’CORD’S revenge 


is out on the plains a little way. Avoid noise when 
you are near it; we don^t want to be discovered." 

"All right, mum," the driver answered whipping 
up his horses. 

"I suspect the young woman is Miss McClure; 
she’s missin’," said the policeman. 

"You are right," said the senator, stiffly, sitting 
back in gloomy silence. 

They drove through lighted streets where the 
tide of human life ebbs and flows. They passed 
gay shops and noisy saloons; then turning into a 
quieter street, went on through the residence por- 
tion of the city, ascending all the time, passing hand- 
some mansions, beautiful homes of cattle kings, 
and miners who had struck it rich, real estate brok- 
ers who went up with Denver’s rise, and the palatial 
homes of pioneers who had crossed the plains with- 
out a dollar in their pockets, or a second shirt to 
their backs. Past these, still higher, here and there 
a house, but mostly wide stretches of barren land. 
Then in the starlight, the gravestones of the old 
burying ground gleaming white and ghastly. The 
resting place of paupers and suicides, the friend- 
less, unknown dead; though a few old families had 
fenced in lots separated from the motley collection 
of husks of humanity. A small, dark object stood 
out in the prairie some distance from the grave- 
yard. The senator. Rose and the policeman left 
the carriage and walked over the plains. The night 
was soft, the stars bright, the far off lights of the 


ROSE m’ cord’s revenge 




289 


city down the hill seemed like a star-lit world be- 
low. 

“I think,” observed the policeman in a melancholy 
tone, “that I’d kinder skeer the young lady. Folks 
has a prejerdice agin the perlice, and these buttons 
kinder acts aggravatin’ on them, which ter the in- 
nercent oughter not make no difference.” 

“He is right,” said Rose coldly; “you will only 
frighten Jean; what possible excuse is there for 
you to introduce a policeman before her?” 

“None,” from the senator anxiously. “Wait near 
the door,” he cautioned the policeman. 

They were at the house now, a little place built 
of mud, fast falling into decay. Rose listened at 
the door. There was no sound and no light. 

“She can’t have gone out,” she whispered. “Wait, 
Pll try the door.” It was unlocked. Rose went in. 
A faint glimmer of. light shone through the chinks 
of a further door. The senator followed, but he 
stepped back a moment. He seemed strangely fas- 
cinated by the bright starlit sky; he looked up, 
and around the plains, at the dark .outline of the 
carriage and horses, then at the policeman near the 
door. “Guard this well,” he said, in a low tone; 
“at the least sound from me, rush in.” 

No. 38 promised but wandered a little way from 
the door to light a match for his cigar. Afterward 
he blessed the match that went out and the second 
that would not burn. 

“She is here,” said Rose, eagerly. She caught 


19D 


290 


ROSE m’CORD’s revenge 


the senator’s arm in her excitement. He rushed 
forward to the chink of light. Something fell, a 
horrible sound like a thousand thunder claps blended 
in one awful peal — followed by a glare like all the 
lightnings of heaven in one dread flash — a feeling 
of flaming fire— a roaring of mighty oceans — a sud- 
den rise of wall and roof — an earthquake — a sense 
of falling, falling, of terrible physical torture — of 
nightmare, a dream leading on through all the hor- 
rors of a fabled hell — then a glimpse of a woman’s 
face; a dark, glowing face with great luminous 
black eyes, coming from a sea of blood; then a 
woman’s voice ringing through all the uproar: 

“If I may not live with you, I can die with you. 
In death we are not divided!” 

A sense of being clutched in a fierce passionate 
grasp, of more fire, more roaring, more thundering, 
then black, black night. 

It took a second, the half of a second, but it 
meant eternity. 

No. 38 had no idea what it was. He did not 
know he could fly, but he recollected when the 
crowd broifght him to consciousness, he had been 
near the adobe house, now, he was much nearer 
town, and all bruised and cut. 

The hackman knew more of it. He remembered 
distinctly he was sitting holding his horses and 
looking over to the house. The gentleman and 
lady had just gone in. He saw a flash of light 
come from one room, like a lamp pulled down from 


ROSE M’CORD’S revenge 


291 


the bracket. He could not tell just how, for there 
was a flimsy curtain over the window: a half sec- 
ond after that there was a terrible crash, and the 
whole house flew up in the air in a burst of flame. 
The earth was torn up all around it; a piece of 
mud struck him, or he fell from the shock, and his 
horses ran away. 

This was his story when he was restored to con- 
sciousness. A farmer living beyond the graveyard 
brought in two lame and battered horses the next 
day remarking the carriage would make good kind- 
ling wood- 

After the explosion an immense crowd gathered 
at the spot, coming in teams from the city, with 
aggrieved residents in the vicinity who had broken 
windows and crockery to account for. When the 
chief of police came the crowd respectfully waited 
for him to investigate. He was a paid officer, if 
there were anymore explosions in the fragments of 
the hut it was his duty to find out. After some 
reasonable delay he went up to the smoking ruins; 
nothing there — nothing to tell the story. 

Then the hackman came to life and asked for his 
team. 

Some one pointed to the prairie with a gloomy 
air, and one man on horseback said a maddened 
span of. horses, dragging something, had passed him 
two miles back of the cemetery. 

"Hack^s gone' ter flinders, ” said a fat man consol- 
ingly; "horses probably broke their necks." 


292 


ROSE m’CORD’s revenge 


“Where’s the man and woman ?” asked the hack- 
man, staggering to his feet moping the blood from 
his face. 

“Man and woman ! Was there anybody there?” 
shouted the crowd. 

Then the hackman told his story, and No. 38 
being recalled to active existence, told his, and 
how trying to light that match had saved his life. 

“The woman had made the man believe some 
young lady was there,” said the officer. “The girl’s 
been missing a day or so; name blowed clean outer 
my head. The senator was a friend of her family, 
and come here ter git her. They went into the 
house, he tellin’ me to come ef he made a sound, 
like he feared some trap. Then there come that 
explosion. I found you here, and me here.” 

“The senator who?” said the chief of police. 
“Brooks,” shrieked a shrill, childish voice, and the 
freckled bell-boy made his appearance. He told 
the story of the mysterious woman’s visits to the 
senator at the hotel, and immediately became a 
person of consequence, and was taken aside by 
groups of men and interviewed. At each recital 
his story became more weird and startling, until at 
last he ventured on his own sage opinion of the 
matter and previous predictions, that something 
uncommon was up. Then a neighbor recollected 
for a week past a dark woman had had boxes hauled 
into the house. Then general belief was the boxes 
contained furniture, and she was a disreputable per- 


ROSE M’CORD’S revenge 


293 


son; indeed all the ladies had resolved never to 
call upon her. “Having all her things boxed, so 
one couldn’t see what she had, and moving way out 
here! ’’ from a lady with a shawl over her head, 
hanging on the arm of a small man in large over- 
shoes. 

“I hauled them boxes,” said a red-haired man. 
“Lord a marsy, ef I’d knowed wot was in ^em.” 

“You was purty nigh crossin’ the range that time, ’’ 
said the fat man, who delighted in contemplation 
of the melancholy possibilities of life. 

While several of the residents of the neighbor- 
hood were telling their experience, an old negro 
came dashing up on a plump black horse, fiery and 
wild as a colt in the excitement. He desired in- 
formation, and the bell-boy, delighted with a new 
listener, came close to the big horse to tell the 
story. 

“Massa Brooks! " cried Sam. He had ridden in 
hot haste from Highland, sent by his mistress to 
find out what the explosion was. “Fore God, I 
b’lieve dat woman was Rose McCord." 

A yell came from the chief of police’s party, who 
were searching with torches up by the grave-yard. 
The crowd rushed in that direction, Sam and his 
black horse in the midst of them. 

The papers teemed with eulogies of a great, dead 
man. The senators had a day’s holiday; a chair was 
decked with crape; there were resolutions passed 
and speeches made testifying to departed worth. 


294 


ROSE m’CORD’S revenge 


There were memorial services in a city in honor of 
one of its citizens, whom the state had made a sen- 
ator. Great lumber mills were locked all day, the 
workmen sat idle, smoking their pipes, and think- 
ing of the owner who was, his millions and his 
death. There was no weeping among the women, 
nor sorrow among the men; they had given their 
work for the wages of the time, neither better nor 
worse than elsewhere, nor had they any deed of 
kindness to remember. 

What was that lying on the ground, blackened, 
burnt and bleeding? Not a ' human creature? A- 
woman, unrecognizable, unknown, save by the great 
dark eyes that had been saved somehow, and now 
in the ghastly head looked upward, with glassy 
calmness, into the horrified faces of the crowd. 

“It was Rose McCord,” whispered Sam. “De 
Lord have mercy on her!” 

That all who knew her prayed, when the unsightly 
body was buried in the hill cemetery, without 
mourners, without one heart to weep over her. 

Further on there was another something; this was 
what the papers eulogized, the senate mourned, and 
a city decked its capitol in black, hung its flags at 
half-mast, and followed with stately splendor to a 
magnificent mausoleum. Draw back, in loathing, 
crowd! Lift it with shuddering horror. Sicken- 
ing, scorched fragment of humanity, once a man! 
What of his millions, what of his fame, what of 
his love? 


ROSE M’CORD’s revenge 


295 


For love of a girl! As a careless boy follows the 
will-o-the-wisp, he followed the magic light of Jean’s 
presence — to his terrible death. Oh, retribution of 
time! The Johnsons might turn in their graves on 
the rocky hill, in the pine-clad gulch; for the little 
child left orphaned and alone in the cabin that fear- 
ful night, had, guiltlessly, wrought revenge on their 
murder, and this blackened corpse was the offering 
of fate for crime and lawless greed. 


CHAPTER XXI 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 

It was August at Henderson’s Station, a burning, 
sultry time, when the plains were great fields of 
scorched grass that fairly smoked in the heat. The 
sun was brassy and bright, and fierce; the pitch 
oozed from the boards of the station house and 
warehouse, and dripped in resinous tears. The 
very trains seemed hot and tired, and the passengers 
were red-faced and dishevelled. The dust was ter- 
rible; it rose in clouds everywhere; it followed the 
train like a trail of smoke; it rode the afternoon’s 
hot wind, and whirled along in clouds; it idly fol- 
lowed every footstep on the prairie — little com- 
plaining puffs of dust that were lying in wait to be 
stirred. Rain, — there had been none, for weeks. 
Everywhere bloomed gay flowers of the plains, and 
the blossoms of the cactus whose touch is torment. 
Colorado in her least lonely mood. 

"It’s durned hot,” Mac would say gloomily, fol- 
lowing the sun around the station, keeping pru- 
dently in the shade. "Hot, " Pottle would ejaculate, 
"hotter’n h — . " He would not finish the sentence, 
but would glance miserably into the station-house. 
They tried to make it cool, but how in that parched 
296 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 297 

desert? Jean, just come back from the border land 
of death, would never get well, they thought, with 
heart break and sad silence. 

Jean had grown strangely weak the first of July. 
She ceased to run with Dicky on the prairie. She 
ceased soon to feed the hens, or do her household 
tasks; then she stayed in her little white bed, as 
white as its sheets, and then she ceased to eat. 
One day they found her raving wildly, screaming 
strange names to them, and calling for people they 
little suspected knew her. Then Mac went down 
to the next station on the road and brought back a 
motherly German woman settled there on a ranch. 
This good soul could not speak a word of English, 
but she was an excellent nurse and loved Jean, who, in 
her delirium, mistook the stout, motherly soul for 
Mrs. McClure and called her "mother,” making her 
kinder than before. When August came Jean^s 
mind was clear again, she knew her friends and 
smiled on her nurse; yet she la}^, white and help- 
less like a broken lily, never to bloom again. 

"Mrs. Kohler’s got to go home to-morrow,” said 
Mac, one sultry afternoon, as he and Pottle sat in 
front of the station waiting for the 3:30 train to 
come along. 

"What kin we do fur Pretty, then?” asked Pot- 
tle. "It breaks my heart to see her lyin’ thar with 
a death look on her face. She’ll never git well." 

"Wonder who that Will was, now, she raved 
about!” said Mac, slowly, settling his tobacco in 


298 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


his pipe with his finger. “Some one; brother per- 
haps." 

“Her feller," Pottle muttered gloomily. 

“I thought of that, young things like Pretty gen- 
erally have a lover, and I’m glad on it; it’s natural. 
I’ve been married myself. My first wife was a lady 
— "he sighed and pushed his hat back on his head. 
“A lady. ’Taint pleasant to a man of seventy to 
think he’s a rascal that oughter be hung." 

“No, ’taint," said Pottle. 

“I’m thinking of a move," said Mac. 

“Not ter leave the stashun?" cried Pottle in 
alarm. 

“No, only for a day^ — one trip up on the 3:30 
train and back to-morrow, leaving you to do double 
duty. I’ll come down on the first train." 

“What for?" 

Mac sunk his voice to a deep sepulchral whisper. 
“I’m going for her folks; I know of them. I lived 
in Denver a good while; I know everybody. Lucky 
McClure is one of the richest men there, made it 
in Coyote Gulch. Fine old fellow; I saw him go 
by here in the cars not long ago. He’d been East 
looking for her; she’s their adopted child, I’ve 
heard of it. Then that Miss Wallace she’s raved 
about lives* in Denver; I know her, buried her fel- 
low. He was shot by her brother. That Rose Mc- 
Cord, too, is Miss Wallace’s servant. She came 
up to the grave-yard prying around, then she used 
to visit Mrs. Mullen, a lady I boarded with in 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


299 


Denver — ” finished Mac, with a slight, hesitating 
cough. 

"That’s a good idee," sighed Pottle. "’Taint 
right fur us ter keep the gal here; it will kill her. 
She’s too bright an’ beautiful ter be sot ’way out 
here in the solitude of a railroad stashun; an’ I’ve 
no doubt but they’re searchin’ everywhar fur her. 
Go, Mac, by all means." 

"I’ll slip off in these old clothes," said Mac, with 
much admiration of his own shrewdness; "she’d 
suspect if she see me fix up." 

"That’s so. Good luck ter ye. Thar’s the train," 
Pottle shouted, running to the switch. 

Mac jumped aboard and the train whizzed on. 

"Going for supplies to Denver,” Mac explained 
to the conductor, and, as he was well known, this 
was a passport. 

The German woman retired to her room to sleep. 
Pottle made signs to her that he would look after 
her charge. He went into the sick room. Jean was 
dressed in a queer flower silk gown Pottle had in 
one of his trunks. He explained it was Chinese, 
he had brought it thinking someday he might have 
a wife to appreciate its beauty. It was of blue silk 
embroidered in white and tied at the waist with 
cord and tassel. Her long golden hair fell in curls 
about her shoulders, and her little white hands 
were almost lost in the wide sleeves of the wrap- 
per. 

"Wheel me out of doors, please, uncle Pottle,” 


300 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


she said so wistfully, he could not refuse. He 
moved her into Mac’s big chair and wheeled it out 
into the back shed that looked out on the plains. 
He left her in the doorway running out every few 
minutes to see if she wanted anything. 

Dicky stayed around for awhile, glad to see his 
mistress out again, but by and by a jack rabbit 
struck his fancy and he started in excited chase. 
Jean would have called Pottle to bring the dog back, 
but she heard the tick of the telegraph and knew 
that there was a message occupying him. So she 
leaned back with a helpless sjgh while faithless 
Dicky disappeared in the distance. 

Dicky ran on, but the jack rabbit ran faster, and 
then darted into a hole. Dicky was tired and heated, 
and he lay down to rest ; then he heard the sound 
of hoofs; there was a cloud of dust coming, pretty 
soon a small sorrel horse came galloping across the 
plain. Dicky considered it a wise thing to ascer- 
tain the strength of the enemy before flight. All 
the fur on his body stood up as he stiffened his legs 
and barked. 

The rider of the sorrel horse was a cowboy, a 
handsome young man with big, dark eyes, close cut 
hair, and skin swarthy as a Mexican’s. 

“Hello, a dog,” said this young man, checking 
his broncho suddenly; "a brown setter marked with 
white — by all that’s holy — .” He leaned forward. 
“Dicky, Dicky,” he called. 

Dicky was making active preparations for imme- 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


301 


diate departure, but he stopped and hesitated. 

“Dicky, you rascal,” called the young man, dis- 
mounting and going toward the dog. Dicky went 
through alternate maneuvers of advance and re- 
treat; finally he did remember, and rushed up to 
his former master with joyful barks and doggish 
caresses. 

“It is Dick, fat and well cared for, and out here. 
What can it mean? could he have been lost off a 
train? They’d have kept him at the station. I’ll 
follow him,” the cowboy said, mounting his horse. 

Dicky, after sundry antics, set off across the 
plains toward the distant station with the air of a 
herald of good tidings. Will spurred his broncho 
and followed. He saw the dog rush in at the open 
door of a long low building; so he rode by the 
house and tied his horse back of the big warehouse. 
He went slowly up to the open door where the dog 
had gone; he meant to ask an explanation. As he 
went around the corner of the house his shadow 
darkened the sunlight before the door. There 
was a vison in blue with pale face and yellow hair. 
His Jean, his lost love was there! 

He stopped utterly bewildered. There was Jean, 
there was the dog he had given her, panting by her 
side; but how came she here in that strange, for- 
eign dress, so white and ill? What could it mean? 
He threw his sombrero down and went up to her. 

“Will,” she said faintly. 

“My Jean!” he cried, with a break in his voice. 


302 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


He knelt down beside her, taking her frail hands 
in his brown rough ones that hard work had given 
a manly strength and ruggedness. 

"I cannot understand it,” he said. "The dog was 
out there, I followed him — I find you here in this 
dress and sick. What does it mean? 

”1 ran away,” stammered Jean, the ghost of a 
blush on her pale cheeks. 

"Tell me all,” he said, holding her hands closer. 
Then she told him why she left, all the sad story 
of her flight, how the old men had cared for her 
and given her a home, and how she had been so 
near death, she thought she would never be well 
again. 

"You will now, Jean,” he said eagerly. "Dicky 
went with you, the dog I gave you — noble old fel- 
low — and you alone at night in Denver, down in 
that place and riding in a cattle-car. My delicate 
Jean, I thought you timid and fearful, but you are 
a heroine — a first-class one. Dear little Jean! You 
must have suffered so! I could crush that tiny 
hand in my big strong one.” 

"You are changed, too,” said Jean, shyly; "youWe 
grown so brown, so strong-looking and brave. You 
are a man now, and there is such a stern look in 
your face I am almost afraid of you.” 

"I have led a wild life,” he said, with shame, 
remembering his recklessness, and downward course. 
"I did not care; I had lost you. I wanted to end 
life, and end it quickly. I left the herd last night, 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


303 


I was so unhappy. I was going to Texas. It is 
worse there, and I thought I might find the end. 
Fate led me here, Jean; something led me to you, 
just at a moment when I felt all goodness leaving 
me, and only the spirit of daring and folly upper- 
most. ” 

Tt was Dicky led you to me," said Jean, with a 
happy little laugh that echoed. 

"Jean," he cried passionately, "you will not die; 
you will live for me, my Jean, my love!" 

He gathered her in his arms, raining kisses on 
her lips, her hair, her forehead; and she clung to 
him, forgetting in that sweet moment of meeting 
all the sorrows of their separation. There should 
be no more dark secrets of the past to part them. 
Love is love — in poverty or riches, in crime or vir- 
tue, in palace or hovel, in sin or law — love is love, 
the wide world over! 

Pottle crept softly out and looked in from the 
house door. He saw the young couple unseen by 
them, and went back to the station house. 

"Her fellePs come by the looks on’t, " he mut- 
tered sagely. 

The good frau went home that night, for her hus- 
band came after her on, a hand-car. She kissed 
Jean good-by, and told her in German — which Jean 
knew and thought particularly delightful — now the 
young lover had come she would get well soon. 

Pottle surpassed himself in the supper he got. 
With a gloomy countenance he fed the broncho and 


304 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


with a vicious twist he wrung the neck of his best 
pullet as a sort of sacrificial offering to Jean’s lover. 
This was the way jealousy and regret affected him; 
otherwise he relaxed from his usual silence and be- 
came quite talkative. After supper, where Jean 
was rosily happy but shy, Pottle called the young 
man into the telegraph room and shut the door. 

“Who be you?" he asked concisely. 

Will explained, and Pottle extended a singularly 
cold, bony hand. It felt like a fish. Will shook 
it heartily, shook it again, and finally laid it down. 
Pottle seemed rather glad to get it, looked thought- 
fully as if projecting another shake, thought better 
of the idea and put his hand in his pocket. 

“Cowboy by trade?" he said. 

“Temporarily," said Will. 

“Oh, temporarily — rily— --quite a word," Pottle re- 
peated thoughtfully. “She’s told yer ’bout us?" 

“Yes, God bless you," said Will. 

“Whether I b’lieve in the doctrin’ or not, ^ taint 
much diff’rence," said Pottle; “it’s a kind wish; 
same ter yer! She’s been sick." 

“I know it, but she will be better now." 

“Shudden’t wonder, shudden’t wonder a mite. 
Wal, here’s a telegram. My partner Mac,”‘hewent 
on, mysteriously, not disposed to break the secrecy 
of their companionship, “is gone ter Denver ter tell 
her folks. She come here in April, got sick in July, 
and we found out then who her folks was, and Mac’s 
gone ter git ’em." 


-DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


305 


“Just as happiness was at my door, just as she was 
mine, to lose her again,” groaned Will. 

“They ain’t agin ye?" asked Pottle, much moved. 

“They will never let me marry her.” 

“Sho, now, jest look here,” Pottle cried, with 
growing excitement; “I guess me an’ Mac’s took 
ker o’ her this four months bein’ fathers to her, 
and w'e’ve got a word to say, an’ ef yer want a 
friend in slopin’. Pm thar. " 

“Thank 5^ou, "said Will, gratefully. “I know you 
mean well, but nothing can help us. An old story 
of the past, not our fault, separates us forever. I 
must not stay, it is better to go before they come. 
Give me some brandy — Pm heart sick, it will help 
me. Bring my horse, Pottle, Pll ride off and never 
see her again. That is the best way.” 

“Young man," said Pottle, bracing his lank form 
against the door, “yer hain’t goin’; you’ll stay here 
an’ face ’em an’ stick by yer gal. Ef you’d heered 
her callin’ fur ye — she bein’ outer her head, an’ 
givin’ way all she’d kep locked in her poor little 
heart, tearin’ her hairj^ moanin’, an’ cryin’, you’d 
never leave her. I tell yer, it will be her death; 
she ain’t no common nater, an’ she don’t love in 
no common way. Drinkin’ eh, an’ brandy? Yer 
look as ef you’d hed too much uv it in times past. 
That’s the poorest way to drown a sorrer. I done 
it; look at the failure I am. The lecturers sez 
thar’s pizen in the cup. I don’t know but they’re 
right, fur it saps the manliness outer a man, an’ 


20D- 


3o6 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


makes him a beat an’ a bum, a human wreck on 
the shores of time.” 

“You are right,” said Will, sadly. “Read me the 
telegram.” 

“Don’t say much, only this: "I’ll be down ter- 
night, special train. Keep Jean up — I mean Pretty. 
Gladdest folks yer ever see. Hip, hip, huroor. 
‘Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.’" 

“He’s a great han’ fur po’try,” said Pottle, ad- 
miringly. “He’d put it in a will if he’d ennything 
to leave. Them folks must have paid fur that tel- 
egram. What’ll we do?” 

“I think we had better not tell her until they 
come, they might be delayed. I’ll sit with her, 
and give her an idea that something is going to 
happen, to prepare her for their arrival.” 

Will’s heart was sad when he went back to Jean, 
but he sat beside her sofa, and told her she must 
keep awake, for old Mac might bring Mr. McClure. 
Jean lay back on her pillow, the big tears rolling 
down her cheeks. 

“Dear love," Will whispered, "let us be happy 
now. We can not tell what time will bring — not 
even a day, an hour — but we can be happy now." 

Jean smiled a pitiful little smile, and laid her 
soft cheek close to his. The time passed swiftly 
to them; but how long it seemed to lonely Pottle 
waiting for a train, and how long it seemed to the 
anxious hearts on that train, as the red headlight 
gleamed through the darkness, and the wavering 


DICKY MAKES A DISCOVERY 


307 


line of lighted windows followed like a trail of fire 
as the special sped across the plains. 


f 


I - 
% 

<►* ■ 

: r j 


CHAPTER XXII 


A HAPPY REUNION 

The car was a comfortable one and the party in 
it right pleasant to look at. Mac was there in great 
glory, the hero of the hour; Mrs. McClure, care- 
worn, and somewhat thinner than of yore, sat be- 
side him, while facing him were two ladies, eagerly 
listening to every word he said, and every word was, 
of course about Jean. Miss Franklin sat up straight 
and dignified as usual but had frequent recourse to 
her handkerchief. Mac’s remarks and his glances 
were chiefly directed toward the other lady, who, 
beautiful still, despite gray hair and deep lines of 
sorrow, kept her eyes on his face with absorbed in- 
terest. She neither wept nor spoke a word. She 
seemed frozen into suffering silence; in her deep 
blue eyes a look of yearning expectancy, and her 
hands clasped tightly in her lap. 

McClure was sitting some distance back, with a 
white-haired old gentleman, in a state of such rest- 
less excitement he could hardly take time to answer 
the old man’s questions. He wandered up and down 
the car, on the platform at either end, and looked 
out of every window in succession. 

“What a journey my poor daughter must have 
308 


A HAPPY REUNION 


309 


had," said the old gentleman, "across these plains 
with her child and her unfeeling husband." 

"It was a terrible journey then,” said McClure, 
stopping and mopping his forehead. "How hot the 
night is! If we could only find Will, Captain Haw- 
ley. When I wrote you I thought he was with you. 
I hoped he would find Jean. I told you her history 
to tell him, that he might know there was no bar- 
rier between them. I never dreamed she was within 
a few hour’s ride of me. God grant we may find 
the lad.” 

"Amen,” said the captain. "Your letter came to 
me just after I had heard from a New York friend 
the lad had left his father; then your letter told 
me why. I got interested in the lost young girl, 
and determined to come out but, Mr. McClure, it’s 
quite a journey for an old man over eighty. Well, 
well, I thought, too, Will was out here. I don’t 
think he went far from the girl he loved. I know 
I’d have hung around if it had been me. I was 
a lad of spirit, sir.” 

I’ll warrant you were," said McClure. "I said 
to Bid — Mrs. McClure — when you came here, and 
so old, and such a strange journey, that you were a 
man of mettle — true gold, sir, and no alloy; the lad 
is like you. ” 

"I’m pleased he is, " exclaimed the captain. "My 
daughter was a noble woman, but I was bitterly 
angry with her for not leaving Curtis. I may have 
been unjust. As I get older and nearer the grave I 


310 


A HAPYY REUNION 


think of it more. I know that I was unjust.” 

'Af^er Al, the Bible says a man must leave all 
his kin for his wife,” said McClure,” and I suppose 
iVs the same law for the wife. Yet it was terribly 
hard for WilPs mother.” 

McClure wandered down the aisle, then to the 
rest of the party. Mac had stopped to get his breath. 

“I wonder now, ” McClure asked him, “if you ever 
heard of a John MacDonald? You were no doubt a 
pioneer here. You ought to know everybody. His 
son was this lady’s husband,” laying a kindly hand 
on Miss Wallace’s shoulder. 

“Miss Wallace thought I was him, but I knew 
him well; we was partners in the grave-digging 
business. He was not any good; he went down hill 
early, giving free rein to all the bad in him, and 
he was killed,” said Mac steadily, “in a fight at 
Bill Bowen’s saloon in 1876.” 

“Where is he buried?” said Miss Wallace eagerly. 

“I thought you’d ask that, ma’am. I remember 
your caring for the body of — ” Mac went on with a 
little break— “the young man, your husband, but 
which I supposed to be a friend. He was buried, 
if you recollect, with a gravestone; but I reserved 
a space for him and fixed it up a little more than 
the rest of them that died with their boots on and 
hadn’t the means to bury them.” 

“I remember it well, said Miss Wallace; “that 
dreary grave yard on the hill, and you buried the 
child near the lot I had fenced ih.* 


A HAPPY REUNION 


3II 

“Right to his feet, ma’am,” Mac answered strange- 
ly moved, “pitiful like, as if looking for his protec- 
tion. They both seemed lone ones the world had 
trampled on.” 

“Mrs. MacDonald had the little grave inclosed 
in the iron fence she had put around the lot," Miss 
Franklin added; “and put up a pretty stone with 
these words: ‘Mary MacDonald, a child martyr;’ 
that was all, was it not, Mrs. MacDonald?” 

“How little I could do for her, I, who had not 
known of her till she had long been dead! Yet 
she was Roy’s — my husband’s— half sister, and that 
miserable man who basely deserted his wife in Scot- 
land was Roy’s father, and this poor child’s. How 
one man’s crime follows a host of innocent beings, 
and brands them with shame and sorrow to the 
grave! I never hear of a man who ^ins but I pray 
God to have pity on his children. The wretched 
old man, you did not tell us where he is buried? I 
would pay him respect, as my husband’s father — 
my Jean’s grandfather.” 

“Jean’s grandfather,” muttered Mac, deep lines 
in his wrinkled forehead, his withered hands trem- 
bling in his lap. “So he was, so he was!” He came 
to himself with a start. “The grandfather of her 
that came to me for shelter, her with her hair of 
gold and her great, sad blue eyes, so dainty and 
fine, a lady in every gentle look and word. He’s 
buried, Mrs. MacDonald — I being used to call you 
and think of you as Miss Wallace, which will ex- 


312 


A HAPPY REUNION 


plain how the name of MacDonald comes unhandy 
to me — he’s buried below the burying-ground pro- 
per; in the potter’s field, they call it, midst rows 
of graves, none of them marked, and he’s confused 
with them, all being crowded together in a rank, 
weed-grown place with murderers and jail-birds, 
pest-house patients, and the unknown that came out 
here in the early days, men without home or country; 
there he is, and no one will know his neighbors, or 
where he’s lying, till the last day, when he’ll rise 
to get his sentence. That’s his last resting-place, 
and I think it best that he lies unknown. I was his 
friend, ma’am, and knowing him at the last, I saw 
he was repentant, worn out with sorrowing and re- 
gret, when it was too late. He would like to be left 
there quiet like and forgot.” 

‘T am sorry,” said Miss Wallace. ”1 had hoped 
to find him alive. He should have had a home 
with me and every care. Even now, so near her, I 
fear something will intervene — that I can never see 
her and tell her I am her mother, that these John- 
sons were not her kin, that her young lover shall 
come back and Jean be happy Jean again. 

“There’s the station light,” said Mac, excitedly. 
“Nothing can help your finding her unless she be 
dead, and that could not be for Pottle would have 
sent word. She’s pale and sick-looking, so don’t 
be shocked when you see her; I think her little 
heart is breaking — that it was more sickness of 
mind than of body. It will upset her to have you 


A HAPPY REUNION 


313 


all come. Shall I go tell her and break the way? 
SheMl expect me.” 

"Yes, go,” said McClure, “we will wait here. Tell 
us when we may come." 

Mac went along the track and softly opened the 
station-house door. The train was some rods from 
the house, on a switch. Pottle had heard the 
noise, and was waiting for him. 

“Be they thar?” he asked softly. 

“Waiting in the car. They sent me ahead to pre- 
pare her.” 

“He told her they was cornin’,” said Pottle, mys- 
teriously. 

“He? Who?” 

“Her feller,” Pottle • explained, with keen relish 
of his important position and his news. “The dog 
run off on the plains, way off there,” (pointing in- 
definitely behind the station). “He seen the dog, 
knowed it, followed it. I heered a noise, an’ seen 
’em huggin’ of each other — name’s Will — cowboy 
temporarily.” The last word with modest pride; 
it was a new acquisition to a limited vocabularly. 
It rather astounded Mac, and for a moment the 
latest news exceeded his own. 

“Where are they?” 

Pottle pointed a lean finger to the inner room. 
Mac softly opened the door. He saw Jean on the 
sofa, and a young man , standing by the window, 
looking out into the night. The young man turned 
when the door opened. 


314 


A HAPPY REUNION 


"Have they come? "he whispered. Mac nodded. 

"Jean,” Will said softly. "Dearest, be brave, your 
father has come." 

The blue eyes opened slowly as ^he gazed about 
her in a dazed, helpless way; then she turned to 
Will: 

"You will not leave me again; never again? 
Promise me before they come; my life hangs on a 
thread now." 

"Never, Jean,” he said firmly. That past was 
not of our making; our young lives, our happiness 
shall not be blasted by it." 

"If when I am well, and the old, sad horror comes 
back, I would not marry you, you will not think 
hardly of me. You will be a dear brother to the 
end?" 

"Whatever you will, Jean," answered her lover 
bravely. 

"Have you no word of welcome?" Mac asked 
gently, his face pained and sad. 

"Dear, kind Uncle Mac, you did what you thought 
was right. It was right, perhaps; but I can only 
bring sorrow on them all." 

"Shall I tell you a little story," said Mac, stand- 
ing at the foot of the sofa, a sad story full of mis- 
ery and sorrow, where lives have been wrecked and 
warped, and deaths have come crowding fast? A 
story with a happy ending, like fairy tales. Pretty?" 

"I don’t understand," said Jean, looking at him 
with wide, wondering eyes. "You speak so differ- 


A HAPPY REUNION 


315 


ently; you look so pale and excited. Does it con- 
cern me? ” 

“You and the 5mung man here that you love.” 

"Then tell me quickly.” 

“In Scotland, years ago there was a bad man 
named MacDonald. He deserted a beautiful, good 
wife, and a little son, and ran away to America, 
where he could be as lawless as he pleased. After- 
ward when her father died and left her penniless — 
for this bad man had laid the foundations of her 
father^ s ruin — she came to America to look for her 
husband. She may have loved him still, or she may 
have hoped he would provide for her and the child. 
She drifted around in the new country and finally 
died in a little Ohio town leaving her son alone in 
the world. Judge Wallace adopted this son — " 

"Miss Wallace’s father?” asked Jean. 

"Yes. He had also taken a girl for his daught- 
er’s maid. Rose McCord, an evil-hearted woman. 
After some years the judge migrated to Denver, 
and took all with him, including his daughter Vir- 
ginia, a girl of sixteen. By and by the daughter 
loved this MacDonald — Roy was his name — and, 
with Rose McCord for witness, Virginia and Roy 
were married secretl}', for the Judge had forbidden 
Roy to his home. In a year a child was born to 
Virginia; the night of its birth Roy came back, and 
Virginia’s brother shot him dead, and was shot 
himself by Roy. Virginia was a witness and fainted 
and they told her her child was born dead. But 


3i6 


A HAPPY REUNION 


Rose McCord gave it to a woman going East, along 
journey then, and in a year made the judge believe 
the child was dead. Then Rose’s sister, Mrs. John- 
son, took the child — 

“Mrs. Johnson!” cried Jean, springing up. “Go 
on, go on; for pity’s sake, tell me quickly, tell me 
the rest.” 

“This Johnson woman had no children; she took 
the babe as her own and in a year brought it back 
to Denver; after that,” said Mac, struggling with 
his painful emotion,” you know the rest. Yo\i were 
that child. Pretty; you are Miss Wallace’s lost 
child. ” 

“Take me to her,” sobbed Jean, forgetting all 
else. Take me to her, my mother, my mother! 
That awful woman was nothing to me, nor the 
shame of being her child. Oh, I can not believe it. 
The sweet lady I loved — so beautiful in her lonely 
house — so sad, so good to me! Oh, my heart tells 
me it is true. She clasped me in "her arms that 
night; take me to her.” 

“She is here,” said Mac softly. He went out, 
and Will slipped after him. Pottle had summoned 
them from the car, and Miss Wallace was waiting 
in the station room. She went in then and Jean’s 
sweet voice, cried with a pathos they had never 
heard before. 

“My mother, my mother; oh, my beautiful mother !” 

They closed the door; for the woman who had 
found her child had a grief too deep for words, a 
joy too sacred for witnesses. 


A HAPPY REUNION 


317 


"You here?" sobbed Mrs. McClure; "Will, my Jean’s 
lover, and you found her first." 

"Will here," said McClure, delightedly. "Will 
Curtis here when we’ve hunted everywhere for him? 
But where should he be but here with his Jean? 
Hurrah, Will! There’s Miss Franklin crying again. 
She’s cried a steady weep ever since Jean went 
away. She’s stood 'by us all, God bless her! No 
more tears, no more sorror; our Jean, our Will, are 
found. ” 

The little old man capered around in his joy, 
hugged his wife, and hugged Miss Franklin, ruffling 
her dignity but never her temper; slapped Mac’s 
shoulder tiir it ached, and wrung Pottle’s hand till 
it lay like a limp fish by his side, and put him to 
much secret anxiety for fear McClure would wring 
it out of use in telegraphy, or take it away as a 
gory trophy. 

"There, I forgot him,” said McClure, suddenly. 
"He’s outside, looking at the plains — seems fairly 
daft over them because his daughter crossed them 
in a wagon; said they’re bigger than the ocean. 
I’ll get him." 

"Who is he?" Will asked. 

"It’s your dear grandfather, the Capen,” Mrs. Me 
Clure explained. "Come way out here after you; and 
wasn’t goin’ back till you was found, if he died here; 
said you was all that was left of his race, and he 
was bound to find you. Alexander writ him about 
all the fuss, an’ that Brooks, an’ all." She told 


3i8 


A HAPPY REUNION 


him then of Brooks’ tragic fate, while McClure’s 
voice was echoing outside calling for “Capen! 
Capen!” 

Prett)^ soon that fine old sea-captain came, straight 
as an arrow in spite of eighty years, with white 
hair framing his weather-beaten old face. 

“So you’re Will Curtis?" he said, surveying 
Will, who stood shy and abashed in his rough suit. 
"Ben a pirate, hey?” 

“No; a cowboy.” 

“Wanter know,” said the old man, much delighted. 
“Read about ’em in the papers — wild lot, eh? You’ve 
got a good face, your mother’s looks; my girl’s boy 
couldn’t help but be a good one. Give me your 
hand, and rough it is,” went on the pleased old 
man, "like a sailor’s; worked hard, eh? Set down 
here and tell me what you did and if all the yarns 
Pve read are true — revolvers in your belt, and car- 
tridges— and fought Indians, eh. Will; fought ’em, 
eh? ” 

“A few.” 

“Kill ’em, eh?” in some excitement. 

“No, not many. A number of roving Indians 
stole our cattle; we chased them and broke up the 
band, and got our stock back. I was hurt here,” 
(pulling up his sleeve and showing a scarce healed 
wound). It wasn’t bravery that made me keep on 
the chase when the rest turned back. It was the 
hope I would be killed. They were twent}' to our 
ten, and had better horses, though their’ s were not 


A HAPPY REUNION 


319 


SO fresh. We ran them down. I went into it to 
get killed; I failed. You know why life wasn’t 
much account to me,” he said, turning to Mrs. Mc- 
Clure. 

“You dear boy ” she smiled. 

“A fine lad,” said the Captain. “Will, can you 
throw a lariat? Now really! Well, you shall show 
me how. Gosh, I’ll try it myself. I can do any 
work about a ship, and I guess I can master that 
trick of a rope.” 

Will told him of a cowboy’s life, and much ex- 
cited the old captain exclaimed: 

“I have it. Will; I brought my money out here 
for you; you shall have a ranch and cattle ; you 
shall be the cattle king of the West. Blast it! I 
came out here; I saw young fellows riding around 
the streets; I asked, ‘Who’s that?’ ‘Oh, English — 
owns cattle here — has a ranch — com§s into town to 
have a good time — making lots of money. Those 
English big-bugs send their youngest sons here to 
get ’em in business and make’ me rich land owners.’ 
‘Where’s our American boys?’ I yells, mad at the 
idea. ‘Hanging around club-houses in New York 
and being walking fashion-plates at Newport and 
abroad,’ some one says. So’s Will I thought; 
he’ll be one of ’em. I’ve kept track of you; heard 
you were at Yale, and stroke-oar — ‘Base ball and 
fiddlesticks and fresh-water navy,’ I says; I’ve no 
use for that lad. I’ll leave my money to a sailors’ 
home, to that noble Sailors’ Snug Harbor on Sta- 


320 


A HAPPY REUNION 


ten Island.^ But I came out here to hunt you up. 
I find you a man—a big, brown, brawny fellow in 
clothes bristling with ammunition, loaded down for 
blockade-running. I find you a cowboy, a cow 
puncher ain’t it? the beast outside that tried to kick 
the life out of me, a broncho, a bucking broncho, 
eh. Will? Bill, I’ll call you— Denver Bill, wild 
boy of the plains, eh?” poking him in the ribs. 
‘One American boy shall be a cattle king; one 
American boy shall have cattle on a thousand hills. 
I’ll camp down, too, blessed if I don’t. With all 
these oceans of land I don’t want any salt-water 
oceans. ” 

While he spoke the door opened, and Jean came 
out leaning on her mother’s arm. 

‘‘Dear father and mother McClure — my father and 
my mother always — take me home again and forgive 
your Jean," she said, with her own happy smile. 

Forgive her! Those faithful, loving hearts! 
They kissed her and cried over her, and Miss 
Franklin — a perfect Niobe — came forward for her 
share of the welcome, then the old Captain made 
his best bow. 

‘‘I’m Will’s grandfather, miss,” he said, with 
much state. ‘‘He will be my heir. I hope the match 
will now be as satisfactory to your mother and Mr. 
and Mrs. McClure as it is to me." 

‘‘My mother,” laughed Jean, ‘‘my two mothers. 
Oh, you dear old man.” Whereupon she kissed 
him on both cheeks. 


A HAPPY REUNION 


321 


"Well, well, Pm sure," he said, heartily, as he 
repaid them with interest. "You’re a fine sick girl, 
eh? Look at the roses in those cheeks! Stand up 
by her. Will; let’s see how you look. It does my 
old eyes good. Ain’t they a picture?" 

"You’ve forgotten somebody,” said Jean. 

"Who?" asked McClure. 

"Why, Dicky. He crawled under the bed in the 
back room, so much noise frightened him. And he 
brought Will back to me, the dear thing!" 

We must not neglect Dicky, then," said the cap- 
tain. "If money’s an object to him, why now — but 
what on earth should make a reasonable being crawl 
under a bed." 

"A bone would be more of an object to him," 
said Jean, with a merry laugh; she was all smiles 
now. "He’s my dog, that Will gave me — the dear- 
est dog in the world." 

After sundry hoarse growls and scuttling with- 
drawals, Dicky was brought out, and he shortly 
made himself as overwhelmingly familiar as he had 
been retiring. 

"Engineer wants ter know ef yer’ goin’ back ter- 
night?” inquired a surly voice at the door. 

"We must, " said McClure; "we made all arrange- 
ments to return; and you, Mr. Pottle and Mr. Mac, 
will go with us. The house is big enough— I’ll 
build a house for you. Don’t think I’m going to 
forget, Pll make you two bless the day you took 
Jean and cared for her." 

21D 


322 


A HAPPY REUNION 


."We couldn’t leave,” said Mac soberly. "Pottle 
has to be here; we’re old chums, and I stand by 
him. You can see how lonesome it will be when 
she — she is gone,” (with a half sob). "There’s tears 
in my eyes, sir; I’m not ashamed of ’em — nor that 
we’ve grown to love her as an angel from the sky 
as staye'3 here awhile. The place is dear to us, 
sir, where her voice has made music, and where her 
eyes, like Colorado’s blue sky, has beamed on us, 
and her yellow hair, like streaks of sunshine, has 
shone in the dark old room. We have the memory 
of that. For us old ones, memory is a blessing; 
we’ve little else. As the song says: 

‘But memory is the only friend 
That grief can call its own.’” 

Mac went to the door hastily to hide his agitaion. 

"Po’try is natereller ter him than eatin’,” apolo- 
gized Pottle; "he must a drawed it in with his fust 
breath.” 

’’You’ll come up to the wedding,” said McClure 
eagerly; "you must. What don’t we owe you both 
for your care of Jean? Where would she be now 
if she had not been led here and taken care of? 
God only knows. Whether you will take aid from 
us or not, Mr. Mac — I believe that is the name?” 

"Mr. Mac,” put in Mac quickly; "quite right.” 

"Well, Mrs. MacDonald and I will put a sum of 
money in the bank in Denver to your credit. Use 
it if you will, or leave it; it’s there. The wedding 
will be next week. I’ve made up my mind, so’s 


A HAPPY REUNION 


323 


the Cap’en; we're not going to leave time for any 
more villains to interfere, and Mrs. MacDonald is 
just as set on it. So I’ll expect you; and I tell 
you the truth, Mr. Pottle, if you’re not there half 
my pleasure will be gone. I want all Jean's friends 
to be there, and see her joy, and wish her and her 
young husband all happiness as they start together 
on the voyage of life.” 

‘‘We will come, sir,” said Pottle, much affected; 
"you kin set us off sorter out of the way, an’ we’ll 
look on, eh, Mac?” 

"Yes,” sighed Mac; "I will — I must see her happy. 
Then — ” he went out suddenly. “Then,” he mut- 
tered to himself in the darkness, "some of my load 
will have fallen, some of the pangs tearing my 
miserable heart will be gone.” 

"All aboard,” shouted the conductor, and they 
went out to the train, Jean lastly, leaning on Will’s 
arm. 

"Good-bye, dear uncle Pottle,” she said brokenly. 
’T shall never forget you, or dear uncle Mac, or my 
peaceful life here where my happiness found me. 
Come to my wedding; I want all my friends with 
me, all who have had patience with my many, many 
failings, and have loved me so tenderly.” 

"We will not miss it, ” echoed Pottle; we’ll look 
forred ter it now in the fust days of yer bein' gone. 
We’ll look back ter it in the long, long days ter 
come. It will cheer us ter the end.” 

He shook her hand, came back again, and laid 


324 


A HAPPY REUNION 


his limp, cold hand in hers, then went away, look- 
ing at it with a sort of reverence. Mac came limp- 
ing up; the light from the train shone on his bowed 
form, and his white hair and beard. 

"There’s happiness stretching so far ahead for 
you, Pretty, ” he said tremblingly, "that I shall never 
see the end. You have outlived your sorrow; it’s 
gone on and left you. Good-by!" 

He stooped and held her hand a moment to his 
lips. Then the conductor bundled Dick — full of 
hilarity and some undignified resistance — on the 
car, and the train moved on — swifter — swifter — till 
it was a speck in the distance. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


WHAT THE MOON SAW 

It was late when the moon rose that night, and 
after all it was a jagged, unfinished moon; but light 
it gave, and grace and beauty, to all the quiet earth 
below. 

Alike on land and sea — the moon shines freely 
and coldly, and the plains in the moonlight — the 
silence, vastness, monotony of land! Far, far and 
farther on, all still and quiet save here and there 
a lurking thing, a coyote or fierce wolf, or a band 
of antelopes fleet as the wind itself. Sometimes the 
red light of a camp-fire, a white covered wagon its 
tethered horses grazing startled to the sky and the 
strange, dull land. They belong to sleeping emi- 
grants who still wander across the tracts of territory 
that steam and men’s labor have redeemed of half its 
horrors. That same cold moon has gleamed on 
many a camp-fire, on countless wagons and weary 
animals; it has seen white and ghastly heaps of 
bones lying above the ground — dread guides to 
point the way to the city of the future. It has seen 
where now great herds of cattle graze, wild bands 
of Indians on their wilder ponies, and high, high 
above, has turned its mocking light on pallid faces 

325 


326 


WHAT THE MOON SAW 


and dim, glazed eyes of dead and dying in the old, 
old, cruel war of races, the war of progress and 
civilization against the savage. 

The moon looks down no more on scenes of car- 
nage and cruelty. No more? Along the creek that 
glistens like silver grains are heaps of unsightly 
things, by the iron roadway, or pressed with torn 
and jagged shoulder against the barbed wires of 
the cruel boundary, are cattle — hundreds of them. — 
dead from starvation — cold — thirst, from maddening 
thirst!'" 

Is life all a story of cruelty, and is cruelty to 
dumb brutes a proof of civilization? Barbed wire 
fences are a product of the nineteen century but only 
the civilized, for gain or revenge, deprives innocent 
dumb beasts of water. Oh, the fearful thirst from 
the dry plains, the burning sun! The savage strikes 
at the man, rarely at the beast, and the man can 
defend himself. The many rotting carcasses tell 
a pitiful story. The moon has seen, when these great 
wastes are covered with icy snow, bleeding cattle 
drag themselves to the iron track to keep from the 
torture of the sharp crust where weak and hungry 
and suffering, too helpless to move, they are crushed 
by the great engines, thrown quivering, wounded, 
beside the track, they die in agony or linger hours 
and days till the prowling wolves come from afar 
and end their misery. 

How lonely are those outcast stations along the 
iron roadway, each with its slinking light sending 


WHAT THE MOON SAW 


327 


a yellow gleam into the night! Does the moon 
ever listen to all the prayers, the raptures the heart- 
break, the joy below? 

"How fine the night is!" said Pottle. 

He was walking up and down the little station 
platform, his long, lean shadow following his long, 
lean figure, friendly twin shadows together. 

"I think a moonlight night on the plains is the 
grandest on earth, so restful an’ peaceful like, an’ 
soothes a man whatever he’s been or done. Nater 
is my God, Mac; if I’d come here in the beginnin’ 
there wouldn’t a bin no account ter settle." 

Mac’s stooping figure joined Pottle’s, and a 
crooked shadow fell in with the straight one in its 
walk. * 

"I don’t know," said Mac, slowly, "what your life 
has been. I’ve told you to-night that girl’s history, 
for I couldn’t help it. I had a longing so for hu- 
man sympathy I couldn’t keep my counsel. I am 
an older man than you. Pottle, and my time’s nigh 
up; you keep your history; you’re a quiet man, 
you bear your suffering silently, and the flood-gates 
of the past hasn’t been opened for you, and — " 

"Waal," Pottle interrupted, "be yer thinkin’ of 
sum po’try?" 

"No, not this night, not now. Listen!" Mac 
stopped at the edge of the platform, and looked 
drearily across the land. "What do you think of 
that old MacDonald I told you of?” 

"D— d raskell!" said Pottle, promptly. 


328 


WHAT THE MOON SAW 


Mac was silent a moment. 

"He was, there ain’t any pity for such a man, and 
yet, Pottle, when he's old, and worn out, and fee- 
ble, and oh, how full of remorse; when he’s got 
wrinkled hands and white hair, and dim eyes. Pot- 
tle, couldn’t you have pity on him?" said Mac with 
a sob. "For God’s sake, couldn’t you have pity on 
him?" 

"Mac, old boy," said Pottle, gently, "there’s oth- 
ers whose lives are black an’ evil; one of the spe- 
ces shouldn’t be down on a nuther! Gimme yer 
han’!” 

Mac turned slowly and looked into Pottle’s gaunt, 
haggard face. 

"You guess, then I was that MacDonald. That 
she — she was my son’s child?" 

"Knowed it when yer told me ’bout her. Nater 
teached me a lot, an’ when the train went off I 
knowed fur a fact thar was suthin’ "tuggin’ at yer 
heart strings. Old pard, yer han’, we’ll stick ter- 
gether ter the end." 

And so they did. 

Is there no great heart beyond the silver light, 
beyond the ken of mortals to listen to the good 
and forget the evil; to look upon the picture of 
two storm-tossed wrecks who had sinned, who had 
suffered, and would suffer to the end? 

Over the magic city the moon shone bright and 
clear. The enchanted city that rose from a barren 
plain in less than a quarter century. Fabled cities 


WHAT THE MOON SAW 


329 


of the past, the old and the new world look on in 
wonder. Theirs was the growth of centuries, this 
of years. Above it, around it, veiled in misty blue, 
with snow-capped, cloud rending peaks, the mighty 
walls of the Rockies, immovable, silent, pitiless 
as eternity. 

Beyond the city of the living the abandoned city 
of the dead. The people of to-day have made a 
better resting-place for the loved and lost by the 
murmuring river, trees and flowers. But on the 
barren hill, is the neglected burying-g round of the 
past where sleep the pioneers who went before. 
Here lies old *Judge Wallace unforgiving to the last 
breath he drew; disappointed in every ambition, 
thwarted in every desire, and beside him his sons. 

Here a mound recently brought back from neg- 
lect and decay covering a weary mother who was 
a faithful wife and a disobedient daughter. How 
sad the two should often be together in pitiful con- 
trast. Here a son will come and a son’s son, and 
a sweet young mother, to lay flowers. Further on 
sleep the brother and sister who never knew the 
tie that bound them — innocent victims of a man’s 
evil doing — Roy McDonald and the child martyr 
whose little unhappy life ended in a glorious death 
a hero must have envied. 

Down from these peaceful graves are the rows of 
graves of the unnamed, the unmourned — unmourned? 
There are waiting, longing hearts in many humble 
homes, mourning the son whose fate they know not, 


330 


WHAT THE MOON SAW 


the daughter whose fate it is a blessing they shall 
never know. Here lie the flotsam and jetsam of a 
new country, the drift in a restless tide ebbing and 
flowing from one land to another, without will or 
purpose. Here the murderer and the murdered lie 
not far apart in quiet where no enmity can enter. 
And here sleeps Rose McCord, her written request, 
she wished her very dust to be forgot. 

On woe and misery, on joy and happiness, the 
moon looks down. 

Beyond the city, across the Platte, is an old vine- 
covered house, its pillared portico, ablaze with 
light, and the big stone mansion adjoining in an- 
other glow. The old house, though, is lighted for 
the first time in twenty years. Sam and Molly are 
hilarious with the McClure servants, and the new 
laundress (succeeding Mrs. Green, who ultimately 
became matron of a poorhouse and ended in the pen- 
itentiary) has proposed a toast to the bride to be; 
and Sam, in a state never before seen in a decorous 
colored man, shows a disposition to fall under the 
table. 

"Doan keer, " he says thickly," I alius loved Miss 
Virginny; knowed she’d come out ahead, an’ so 
she done. I alius hated like pisen dem poor white 
trash puttin’ on airs — " 

"She don gone, Sam, ” cautions Aunty Molly mildly. 
Tain’t fur sinners ter judge. ” 

What is that frightful noise at McClures? It is 
the old man playing on the bagpipes. His wife 


WHAT THE MOOI^' SAW 


331 


sits close beside him, the music does her good. 

"Sure, he’s not played on them since he was in 
the Gulch," she sa5^s fondly, ’’an’ he do do it buti- 
ful." 

"It is fine — fine,” smiles the captain^ ’’something 
martial, eh, 'Miss Franklin?” 

"Martial, indeed, Mr. McClure is a fine musician. ” 
Miss Franklin is all smiles to-night, disposed to 
rejoice even in bagpipe playing. Miss Wallace, or 
Mrs. MacDonald, is watching a pretty picture 
through the doorway. 

At the big window in the library standing by the 
heavy silken curtains looking but at the city across 
the river is Will, his bright, handsome face lighted 
by the moon that beams a benediction on the home. 
A manly lover brave and true. Close by his side, 
encircled by his protecting arm, is happy, happy 
Jean in her pretty white dress with her pretty bright 
face and smile. 

"And you gave the two little children your lunch 
Will, that day?” she says tenderly. 

"You were such a scared round-eyed thing,” he 
laughs, "like a prairie owl.” 

"Poor little Mary MacDonald,” Jean murmurs 
tearfully, "she gave her life for me. Faintly comes 
back to me as in a dream, the cold garret, that 
hard bed, and she gathering me in her arms, fold- 
ing her tattered gown about me. Brave little child 
heart!” 

"Don’t you think, Jean, there must be recompense 


332 


WHAT THE MOON SAW 


in the hereafter,” says Will; there are tears in his 
eyes, too. 

"I know there is,” she whispered. 

Just then McClure calls out: ^ 

’’Where’s Dicky?” 

"Under the sofa,” from Miss Franklin with a hope- 
ful air; “he doesn’t like the music.” Mr. McClure, 
she thought, might take some other method of ex- 
pressing joy. 

‘^Doesn’t like the bagpipes?” laughs Mr. McClure; 
he’s no collie; he’s an American dog; he’d like a 
brass band and Yankee Doodle. Come, Miss Frank- 
lin, then play my song for me and I’ll sing — yes. 
I’ll sing,” he said firmly; “you needn’t frown, Bid- 
dy, you can stand it. I’ll sing about my Jean — 
Bobby Burns’ own song.” 

So he sings, "I love my Jean.” Will draws Jean 
closer and holding her to his heart the sweet prom- 
ise of the future, the happiness, the joy, comes 
to him, the solemnness of his charge, and his love, 
and he says: 

“My love, my wife, whatever the future brings, I 
shall say to the end of my life and all the after- 
wards — the long afterwards of eternity: 

‘Dearer than my deathless soul 
I still would love my Jean.’” 


THE END 


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